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PARNASSUS. 


PARNASSUS 


EDITED    BY 


RALPH    WALDO     EMERSON 


Oh,  how  fair  fruit  may  you  to  mortal  man 
From  Wisdom's  garden  give ! "  —  Gascoigne. 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

©lie  Eiiierfiilie  Presu,  (^rnhvitisi^ 

1881 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PRj  175 
MAIN 


WSf^^- 


PREFACE. 


This  volume  took  its  origin  from  an  old  habit  of  cop3-ing  anj- 
poem  or  lines  that  interested  me  into  a  blank  book.  In  many 
years,  my  selections  filled  the  volume,  and  required  another ;  anc] 
still  the  convenience  of  commanding  all  my  favorites  in  one 
album,  instead  of  searching  m}'  own  and  other  libraries  for  a 
desired  song  or  verse,  and  the  belief  that  what  charmed  me  proba- 
bly might  charm  others,  suggested  the  printing  of  my  enlarged 
selection.  I  know  the  convenience  and  merits  of  the  existing 
anthologies,  and  the  necessity  of  printing  in  every  collection  many 
masterpieces  which  all  English-speaking  men  have  agreed  in  ad- 
miring. Each  has  its  merits  ;  but  I  have  found  that  the  best  of 
these  collections  do  not  contain  certain  gems  of  pure  lustre, 
whilst  they  admit  man}'  of  questionable  claim.  The  voluminous 
octavos  of  Anderson  and  Chalmers  have  the  same  fault  of  too 
much  mass  and  too  little  genius ;  and  even  the  more  select 
"Golden  Treasury"  of  Mr.  Palgrave  omits  too  much  that  I  can- 
not spare.  I  am  aware  that  no  two  readers  would  make  the  same 
selection.  Of  course,  I  shall  gladly  hail  with  the  public  a  better 
collection  than  mine. 

Poetry  teaches  the  enormous  force  of  a  few  words,  and,  in  pro- 
portion to  the  inspiration,  checks  loquacity.  It  requires  that 
splendor  of  expression  w^hich  carries  with  it  the  proof  of  great 
thoughts.  Great  thoughts  insure  musical  expressions.  Every 
word  should  be  the  right  word.     The  poets  are  they  who  see  that 


IV 


PREFACE. 


spiritual  is  greater  than  any  material  force,  that  thoughts  rule  the 
world.  The  great  poets  are  judged  by  the  frame  of  mind  they 
induce  ;  and  to  them,  of  all  men,  the  severest  criticism  is  due. 

Some  poems  I  have  inserted  for  their  historical  importance ; 
some,  for  their  weight  of  sense  ;  some,  for  single  couplets  or  lines, 
perhaps  even  for  a  word  ;  some,  for  magic  of  style ;  and  I  have 
admitted  verses,  which,  in  their  structure,  betray  a  defect  of  poetic 
ear,  but  have  a  wealth  of  truth  which  ought  to  have  created 
melody.  I  know  the  peril  of  didactics  to  kill  poetry,  and  that 
Wordsworth  runs  fearful  risks  to  save  his  mental  experiences. 
Some  poems  are  external,  like  Moore's,  and  have  only  a  superficial 
melody :  others,  like  Chaucer's,  have  such  internal  music  as  to 
forgive  a  roughness  to  the  modern  ear,  which,  in  the  mouth  of  the. 
bard,  his  contemporaries  probably  did  not  detect.  To  Chaucer 
may  be  well  applied  the  word  of  Heraclitus,  that  "  Harmony  la- 
tent is  of  greater  value  than  that  which  is  patent." 

There  are  two  classes  of  poets,  —  the  poets  b}"  education  and 
practice,  these  we  respect ;  and  poets  bj'-  nature,  these  we 
love.  Pope  is  the  best  type  of  the  one  class :  he  had  all  the 
advantage  that  taste  and  wit  could  give  him,  but  never  rose  to 
grandeur  or  to  pathos.  Milton  had  all  its  advantages,  but  was 
also  poet  born.  Chaucer,  Shakspeare,  Jonson  (despite  all  the 
pedantic  lumber  he  dragged  with  him) ,  Herbert,  Herrick,  Collins, 
Burns,  —  of  the  other.  Then  there  are  poets  who  rose  slowl}-, 
and  wrote  badly,  and  had  3'et  a  true  calling,  and,  after  a  hundred 
failures,  arrived  at  pure  power ;  as  Wordsworth,  encumbered  for 
years  with  childish  whims,  but  at  last,  by  his  religious  insight, 
lifted  to  genius. 

Scott  was  a  man  of  genius,  but  onl}'  an  accomplished  rh3'mer 
(poet  on  the  same  terms  as  the  Norse  bards  and  minstrels) ,  admir- 
able chronicler,  and  master  of  the  ballad,  but  never  crossing  the 
threshold  of  the  epic,  where  Homer,  Dante,  Shakspeare,  and 
Milton  dwell. 


PREFACE.  y 

The  task  of  selection  is  easiest  in  poetry.  What  a  signal  con- 
venience is  fame !  Do  we  read  all  authors  to  grope  our  way  to 
the  best?  No  ;  but  the  world  selects  for  us  the  best,  and  we  select 
from  these  our  best. 

Chaucer  fulfils  the  part  of  the  poet,  possesses  the  advantage  of 
being  the  most  cultivated  man  of  his  time,  and  so  speaks  always 
sovereignly  and  cheerfully.  Often  the  poetic  nature,  being  too 
susceptible,  is  over-acted  on  by  others.  The  religious  sentiment 
teaching  the  immensity  of  every  moment,  the  indifference  of  mag- 
nitude, the  present  is  all,  the  soul  is  God ;  —  this  lesson  is 
great  and  greatest.  Yet  this,  also,  has  limits  for  humanity.  One 
must  not  seek  to  dwell  in  ethereal  contemplation :  so  should  the 
man  decline  into  a  monk,  and  stop  short  of  his  possible  enlarge- 
ment.    The  intellect  is  cheerful. 

Chaucer's  antiquity  ought  not  to  take  him  out  of  the  hands  of 
intelligent  readers.  No  lover  of  poetry  can  spare  him,  or  should 
grudge  the  short  study  required  to  command  the  archaisms  of  his 
English,  and  the  skill  to  read  the  melody  of  his  verse.  His  matter 
is  excellent,  his  story  told  with  vivacity,  and  with  equal  skill  in 
the  pathos  and  in  triumph.  I  think  he  has  lines  of  more  force 
than  any  English  writer,  except  Shakspeare.  If  delivered  by  an 
experienced  reader,  the  verses  will  be  found  musical  as  well  as 
wise,  and  fertile  in  invention.  He  is  always  strong,  facile,  and 
pertinent,  and  with  what  vivacity  of  style  through  all  the  range 
of  his  pictures,  comic  or  tragic  !  He  knows  the  language  of  joy 
and  of  despair. 

Of  Shakspeare  what  can  we  say,  but  that  he  is  and  remains  an 
exceptional  mind  in  the  world  ;  that  a  universal  poetry  began  and 
ended  with  him ;  and  that  mankind  have  required  the  three  hun- 
dred and  ten  years  since  his  birth  to  familiarize  themselves  with 
his  supreme  genius?  I  should  like  to  have  the  Academy  of 
Letters  propose  a  prize  for  an  essay  on  Shakspeare's  poem,  '''•Let 


yj  PREFACE. 

the  bird  of  loudest  lay"  and  the  ''  Threnos  "  with  which  it  closes  ; 
the  aim  of  the  essay  being  to  explain,  by  a  historical  research  into 
the  poetic  myths  and  tendencies  of  the  age  in  which  it  was  writ- 
ten, the  frame  and  allusions  of  the  poem.  I  have  not  seen  Ches- 
ter's ^^  Love's  Martyr"  and  "the  Additional  Poems"  (1601),  in 
which  it  appeared.  Perhaps  that  book  will  suggest  all  the  expla- 
nation this  poem  requires.  To  unassisted  readers,  it  would  appear 
to  be  a  lament  on  the  death  of  a  poet,  and  of  his  poetic  mistress. 
But  the  poem  is  so  quaint,  and  charming  in  diction,  tone,  and 
allusions,  and  in  its  perfect  metre  and  harmony,  that  I  would 
gladly  have  the  fullest  illustration  yet  attainable.  I  consider  this 
piece  a  good  example  of  the  rule,  that  there  is  a  poetry  for  bards 
proper,  as  well  as  a  poetry  for  the  world  of  readers.  This  poem, 
if  published  for  the  first  time,  and  without  a  known  author's  name, 
would  find  no  general  reception.     Only  the  poets  would  save  it. 

To  the  modern  reader,  Ben  Jonson's  plays  have  lost  their  old 
attraction  ;  but  his  occasional  poems  are  full  of  heroic  thought,  and 
his  songs  are  among  the  best  in  the  language.  His  life  interests 
us  from  the  wonderful  circle  of  companions  with  whom  he  lived,  — 
with  Camden,  Shakspeare,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Bacon,  Chapman, 
Herbert,  Herrick,  Cowley,  Suckling,  Drayton,  Donne,  Carew,  Sel- 
den,  —  and  b}-  whom  he  was  honored.  Cowley  tells  us,  "I  must 
not  forget  Ben's  reading :  it  was  delicious :  never  was  poetry  mar- 
ried to  more  exquisite  music:"  and  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle 
relates,  that  her  husband,  himself  a  good  render,  said  he  "  never 
heard  any  man  read  well  but  Ben  Jonson." 

Spence  reports,  that  Pope  said  to  him,  "  Crashaw  is  a  worse 
sort  of  Cowley:  Herbert  is  lower  than  Crashaw,"  —  an  opinioh 
which  no  reader  of  their  books  at  this  time  will  justify.  CrashaW, 
if  he  be  the  translator  of  the ' '  Sospetto  d'Herode,'  has  written 
masterly  verses  never  learned  from  Cowley,  some  of  which  I  have 
transcribed ;   and  Herbert  is  the  psalmist  dear  to  all  who  love 


PREFACE. 


VU 


religious  poetry  with  exquisite  refinement  of  thought.  So  much 
piety  was  never  manied  to  so  much  wit.  Herbert  identifies  him- 
self with  Jewish  genius,  as  Michael  Angelo  did  when  carving  or 
painting  prophets  and  patriarchs,  not  merely  old  men  in  robes 
and  beards,  but  with  the  sanctity  and  the  character  of  the  Penta- 
teuch and  the  prophecy  conspicuous  in  them.  His  wit  and  his 
piet}'  are  genuine,  and  are  sure  to  make  a  lifelong  friend  of  a  good 
reader. 

Herrick  is  the  tyric  poet,  ostentatiously  choosing  petty  subjects, 
petty  names  for  each  piece,  and  disposing  of  his  theme  in  a  few 
lines,  or  in  a  couplet ;  is  never  dull,  and  is  the  master  of  miniature 
painting.  On  graver  themes,  in  his  "  Sacred  Numbers,"  he  is 
equally  successful. 

Milton's  ' '  Paradise  Lost  "  goes  so  surely  with  the  Bible  on  to 
every  book-shelf,  that  I  have  not  cited  a  line  ;  but  I  could  not 
resist  the  insertion  of  the  '*  Comus,"  and  the  ''Lycidas,"  which 
are  made  of  pure  poetr}',  and  have  contented  myself  with  extracts 
from  the  grander  scenes  of  "  Samson  Agonistes." 

The  public  sentiment  of  the  reading  world  was  long  divided  on 
the  merits  of  Wordsworth.  His  early  poems  were  written  on  a 
false  theory  of  poetrj- ;  and  the  critics  denounced  them  as  childish. 
He  persisted  long  to  write  after  his  own  whim ;  and,  though  he 
arrived  at  unexjDected  power,  his  readers  were  never  safe  from  a 
childish  return  upon  himself  and  an  unskilful  putting-forward  of 
it.  How  different  from  the  absolute  concealment  of  Shakspeare 
in  all  his  miraculous  dramas,  and  even  in  his  love-poems,  in 
which,  of  course,  the  lover  must  be  perpetually  present,  but  alwaj^s 
by  thought,  and  never  by  his  buttons  or  pitifulness  !  Montaigne 
is  delightful  in  his  egotism.  B^Ton  is  always  egotistic,  but  inter- 
esting thereby,  through  the  taste  and  genius  of  his  confession  or 
his  defiance.  : 

Wordsworth  has  the  merit  of  just  moral  perception,  but  not  ih&t 


yijj  PREFACE. 

of  deft  poetic  execution.  How  would  Milton  curl  his  lip  at  such 
slipshod  newspaper  style  !  Many  of  his  poems,  as,  for  example, 
*'  The  Rylstone  Doe,"  might  be  all  improvised :  nothing  of  Mil- 
ton, nothing  of  Marvell,  of  Herbert,  of  Dryden,  could  be.  These 
are  verses  such  as  many  country  gentlemen  could  write  ;  but  few 
would  think  of  claiming  the  poet's  laurel  on  their  merit.  Pindar, 
Dante,  Shakspeare,  whilst  they  have  the  just  and  open  soul,  have 
also  the  eye  to  see  the  dimmest  star,  the  serratures  of  every  leaf, 
the  test  objects  of  the  microscope,  and  then  the  tongue  to  utter 
the  same  things  in  words  that  engrave  them  on  the  ears  of  all 
mankind. 

The  poet  demands  all  gifts,  and  not  one  or  two  only.  Like  the 
electric  rod,  he  must  reach  from  a  point  nearer  to  the  sky  than  all 
surrounding  objects,  down  to  the  earth,  and  into  the  wet  soil,  or 
neither  is  of  use.  The  poet  must  not  only  converse  w^ith  pure 
thought,  but  he  must  demonstrate  it  almost  to  the  senses.  His 
words  must  be  pictures :  his  verses  must  be  spheres  and  cubes,  to 
be  seen  and  handled.  His  fable  must  be  a  good  stor}',  and  its 
meaning  must  hold  as  pure  truth.  In  the  debates  on  the  Copyright 
Bill,  in  the  English  parliament,  Mr.  Sergeant  Wakley,  the  coroner, 
quoted  Words wortli's  poetry  in  derision,  and  asked  the  roaring 
House  of  Commons,  "  what  that  meant,  and  whether  a  man  should 
have  a  public  reward  for  writing  such  stuff?" — Homer,  Horace, 
Milton,  and  Chaucer  would  defj^  the  coroner.  Whilst  they  have 
wisdom  to  the  wise,  he  would  see  that  to  the  external  they  have 
external  meaning.  Coleridge  rightly  said  that  "  poetry  must  first 
be  good  sense,  as  a  palace  might  well  be  magnificent,  but  first  it 
must  be  a  house."  Wordsworth  is  open  to  ridicule  of  this  kind  ; 
and  yet,  though  satisfied  if  he  can  suggest  to  a  sympathetic  mind 
his  own  mood,  and  though  setting  a  private  and  exaggerated  value 
on  his  compositions,  and  taking  the  public  to  task  for  not  admiring 
his  poetry,  he  is  really  a  master  of  the  English  language  ;  and  his 


PREFACE. 


IX 


best  poems  evince  a  power  of  diction  that  is  no  more  rivalled  by 
his  contemporaries  than  is  his  poetic  insight.  But  his  capital 
merit  is,  that  he  has  done  more  for  the  sanity  of  his  generation 
than  an}'  other  writer. 

"  Laodamia"  is  almost  entitled  to  that  eminence  in  his  literary 
performance  which  Landor  gave  it  when  he  said,  that  "Words- 
worth had  now  written  a  poem  which  might  be  fitly  read  in  Elysium, 
and  the  gods  and  heroes  might  gather  round  to  listen."  I  count 
that  and  the  "  Ode  on  Immortality  "  as  the  best. 

Wordsworth  has  a  religious  value  for  his  thoughts ;  but  his 
inspirations  are  casual  and  insufficient,  and  he  persists  in  writing 
after  they  are  gone.  No  great  poet  needs  so  much  a  severely 
critical  selection  of  the  noble  numbers  from  the  puerile  into  which 
he  often  falls.  Leigh  Hunt  said  of  him,  that  ''he  was  a  fine 
lettuce  with  too  man}^  outer  leaves." 

Byron's  rare  talent  is  conspicuously  partial.  He  has  not  sweet- 
ness, nor  solid  knowledge,  nor  lofty  aim.  He  had  a  rare  skill  for 
rhj^thm,  unmatched  facilit}'  of  expression,  a  firm,  ductile  thread  of 
gold.  His  rhymes  do  not  suggest  any  restraint,  but  the  utmost 
freedom,  as  the  rules  of  the  dance  do  not  fetter  the  good  dancer, 
but  exhibit  his  natural  grace.  In  his  isolation  he  is  starved  for  a 
pui-pose  ;  and  finding  no  material  except  of  romance,  —  first,  of 
corsairs,  and  Oriental  robbers  and  harems,  and,  lastly,  of  satire,  — 
he  revenges  himself  on  society  for  its  supposed  distrust  of  him,  by 
cursing  it,  and  throwing  himself  on  the  side  of  its  destroj^ers. 
His  life  was  wasted  ;  and  its  only  result  was  this  brilliant  gift  of 
song  with  which  he  soothed  his  chosen  exile.  I  do.  not  know  that 
it  can  retain  for  another  generation  the  charm  it  had  for  his  con- 
temporaries ;  but  the  security  with  which  he  pours  these  perfectly 
modulated  verses  to  any  extent,  without  any  sacrifice  of  sense  for 
the  sake  of  metre,  surprises  the  reader. 


X  PREFACE. 

Tennyson  has  incomparable  felicity  in  all  poetic  forms,  surpass- 
ing in  melody  also,  and  is  a  brave,  thoughtful  Englishman,  un- 
matched in  rhythmic  power  and  variety.  The  thoroughness  with 
which  the  fable  has  been  thought  out,  as  in  the  account  of  the 
supreme  influence  of  Arthur  on  his  knights,  is  only  one  of  his  tri- 
umphs. The  passion  of  love  in  his  "  Maud"  found  a  new  cele- 
bration, which  woke  delight  wherever  the  English  language  is 
known;  the  "Dirge  of  Wellington"  was  a  more  magnificent 
monument  than  any  or  all  of  the  histories  that  record  that  com- 
mander's life.  Then  the  variety  of  his  poems  discloses  the  wealth 
and  the  health  of  his  mind.     Nay,  some  of  his  words  are  poems. 

The  selections  from  American  writers  are  necessarily  confined 
to  the  present  century ;  but  some  of  them  have  secured  a  wide 
fame.  Some  of  them  are  recent,  and  have  yet  to  earn  their  lau- 
rels. I  have  inserted  onl}^  one  of  the  remarkable  poems  of  For- 
ceythe  Willson,  a  young  Wisconsin  poet  of  extraordinary  promise, 
who  died  very  soon  after  this  was  written.  The  poems  of  a  lady 
who  contents  herself  with  the  initials  H.  H.  in  her  book  published 
in  Boston  (1874)  have  rare  merit  of  thought  and  expression, 
and  will  reward  the  reader  for  the  careful  attention  which  they 
require.  The  poem  of  "  Sir  Pavon  and  Saint  Pavon,"  by  another 
hand,  has  a  dangerous  freedom  of  style,  but  carries  in  it  rare 
power  and  pathos. 

The  imagination  wakened  brings  its  own  language,  and  that  is 
alwaj'S  musical.  It  may  or  may  not  have  rh}Tne  or  a  fixed  metre  ; 
but  it  will  always  have  its  special  music  or  tone.  Whatever  lan- 
guage the  bard  uses,  the  secret  of  tone  is  at  the  heart  of  the  poem. 
Every  great  master  is  such  by  this  power,  —  Chaucer  and  Shak- 
speare  and  Raleigh  and  Milton  and  Collins  and  Burns  and 
Byron  and  Tennyson  and  Wolfe.  The  true  inspiration  always 
brings  it.  Perhaps  it  cannot  be  analyzed  ;  but  we  all  yield  to  it. 
It  is  the  life  of  the  good  ballads ;   it  is  in  the  German  hymns 


PREFACE.  Xi 

which  Wesley  translated  ;  it  is  in  the  "  Marseillaise  "  of  Rouget  de 
Lisle  ;  it  gave  their  value  to  the  chants  of  the  old  Romish  and 
of  the  English  Church  ;  and  it  is  the  only  account  we  can  give  of 
their  wonderful  power  on  the  people.  Poems  may  please  by  their 
talent  and  ingenuit}^ ;  but,  when  they  charm  us,  it  is  because  they 
have  this  quality,  for  this  is  the  union  of  nature  with  thought. 

R.  W.  E. 


CONTENTS 


NATURE. 


Land.  —  Sea.  —  Sky. 


Argument  of  his  Book 

At  Sea    .... 

Barberry-Bush,  The 

Bird,  The 

Birds  of  Killiugw'orth,  The 

Blossoms,  To 

Bothie  of  Tober  na  Vuolich 

Boy  Poet,  The 

Breeding  Lark  . 

Cave  of  Stafta 

Cloiul,  The 

Coral  Grove,  The  . 

Coriinia's  going  a- Maying 

Country  Life,  The 

Dawn  .... 

Datfodills,  To 

Daffodils    .... 

Death  of  the  Flowers,  The 

Death  of  the  Old  Year,  The 

Diamond,  The 

Dover  Chft's 

Drop  of  Dew,  A     . 

Eagle,  The 

Earth-Spirit,  The  . 

Evening,  Ode  to 

Evening  Star,  To  the    . 

First  of  May      .  '     . 

Flight  of  the  Wild  Geese 

Flowers      .... 

Flowers  at  Cave  of  Staffa 

Fox  and  Cock    . 

Fringed  Gentian,  To  the 

Garden,  The      . 

Grasshopper,  The . 

Haze 

Herb  Rosemary,  To  the 

Hillside  Cot,  The     . 

Hope 

Joanna,  To 

II  Penseroso  . 

Lachin  y  Gair    . 

L' Allegro 

Landscape 

Liberty    . 

Lost  in  the  Snow 

May 

Milky  Way,  The 

Mist 

Moonlight  . 

Morning . 

Morning  in  the  Mountains 


From  the 


Herrich  . 
J.  T.  Trowbridge 
Jones  Very    . 
W.  Allingham  . 
Longfellow    ' 
Herrick 
Clough    . 
Wordsworth 
Arthur  Boar  . 
Wordsworth 
Shelley  . 
J.  G.  Percival . 
Herrick  . 
Herrick 
Shakspeare   . 
Herrick 
Wordsworth  . 
Bryant 
Tennyson 

J.  J.  G    Wilkinson 
Shakspeare   . 
A    Marvel  I 
Tennyson 
Charining  . 
Collins  . 
Wordsworth 
Wordsworth  . 
Charming . 
Shakspeare  . 
Wordsworth     . 
Chaucer 
Bryant 
Marvell . 
Richard  Lovelace 
H.  D.  Thoreau 
H.  K.  White      . 
Channing 
Campbell  . 
Wordsioorth  . 
Milton 
Byron     . 
Milton 
Tennyson 
Wordsioorth     . 
Thomson 
Ben  Jonson 
Chaucer . 
Thoreau    . 
Shakspeare  . 
Shakspeare 
Wordsworth . 


Page. 
3 
48 
32 
36 
11 
33 
20 
27 
36 
42 


XIV 

Mountain,  The      .       .       .       , 

Nature 

Nature 

Night  and  Death 

Night 

Niglit 

Nightingale,  Tlie  . 
Niglitiiigale       .... 
Nigiuingale,  The  . 
Niglitiiigale'8  Death-Song,  The 
Niglitingale's  Song,  The 

Ocean         

Ocean      

Osnninda  Regalis,  The    . 
Out  aiul  Inward  Bound 
Pass  of  Kirkstone,  The  . 
Primrose,  Tlie       ... 
Kainbow,  To  the     . . 
liainbow.  The       .        .        .        . 
Rivulet,  The     .... 


CONTENTS. 


Sea 

Sea-Shell,  Inscription  on  a     . 

Sea  Song 

Sea  Song 

September,  1819 

Skating 

Skylark,  To  a 

Skylark,  To  the 

Smoke 

Snow 

Solitude 

Song  of  the  Emigrants  in  Bermuda     . 

Song  of  the  Stars 

Sonnet :  "  Full  many  a  glorious  morning ' 

Stomi,  The 

Sunflower,  The 

Sunset 


Swimming 

Tacking  Ship  off  Shore 

Tintern  Abbey . 

Wat«rfowl.  To  a   '   . 
Winter:  a  Dirge    . 
Winter  Night,  A 
Yew-Trees     . 


Channing  . 
Ben  Jonson    . 
James  Beattie  . 
J.  Blanco  White 
Beattie 
Shakspeare   . 
Keats 
Thomson 
B.  Barnejield   . 
Hemans 
T.H.  Bayly     . 
Charles  Sprague 
Pollok 

Wordsworth . 
Shakspeare 
Wordsworth . 
Herrick     . 
Campbell 
Byron 
Bryant  , 
Byron 
Landor  . 
Channing . 
A.  Cxmningham, 
Wordstoor'th     . 
Wordsworth . 
Shelley      . 
Wordsioorth . 
Thoreau    . 
Wordsworth . 
Byron 

Aiarvell .        , 
Bryant 
Shakspeare  . 
Byron 

W.  Blake      . 
Byron 
Byron     . 
Walter  Mitchel 
Wordsworth . 
Spenser     . 
Bryant  . 
Bums 
Burns     . 
Wordsworth     . 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

Home.  —Woman.  —  Love.  —  Friendship.— Manners.  —Holy  Days.- 

holidays. 


Anathemata  .... 
Apology  for  having  loved  before 

Ariadne 

Athiilf  and  Ethilda 

Babe,  The      .... 

Beauty 

Bi-ide,  The      .... 
Bride,  The        .... 
Charmer,  My .... 
Child,  To  a         .... 
Children's  Hour,  The  . 
Common  Sense 
Corinne,  To    . 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The 

Divided 

Dtichesse  Blanche    . 
Ecsuisy,  The  . 
Elizabeth  of  Bohemia     . 
Freedom  in  Dress . 


F.  B.  Sanborn 
E.  Waller      . 
Chaucer    . 
Henry  Taylor 
Sir  Wm.  Jones 
Spenser . 
Spenser    . 
Suckling 
Waller '     . 
N  P.  Willis 
Lonfifcllow 
Shakspeare   . 
Mrs.  Hemana 
Bums     . 
Jean  Ingelow 
Chaucer 
John  Donne 
Wotton  . 
Ben  Jonson 


{Trans.) 


CONTENTS. 


Genevieve 

Gentility 

Girdle,  On  a 

Give  me  the  Old 

Home 

Honoria 

Hymn  to  the  Graces        .... 
If  Thou  wert  by  my  Side,  my  Love  . 
I'll  never  love  thee  more 

Inborn  Royalty 

Lady's  Yes,  The 

Last  Farewell,  The 

LUy  of  Xithsdale,  The    .... 
Lines  on  leaving  Europe     .... 

Love 

Love  against  Love        .        .       .        . 

Love  at  First  Sight 

Lucasta,  To 

Lucy 

Maud *    . 

My  Mother's  Picture       .... 

Othello's  Defence 

Outgrown 

Peasant's  Return,  The         .... 

Playmate,  My 

Pilot's  Daughter,  The 

Poetry  of  Dress,  The        .... 

Portrait,  The 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus        .... 

Queen,  The 

Rosaline 

Rose  of  the  World,  The       .... 

Sentences  

She  walks  in  Beauty 

Silvia,  To 

Song :  "  See  the  Chariot  at  hand  "     . 
Song :  "  How  near  to  Good  is  what  is  Fair ' 
Sonnet:  "  How  of  t  when  thou" 
Sonnet :  "  Let  me  not  to  tlie  Marriage  " 
Sonnet :  "  So  am  I  as  the  Rich  " 
Sonnet :"  To  me  Fair  Friend  "     . 

Sundered 

Sympathy 

Thou  has't  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie  . 

Tribute,  The 

True  Love      •     ■  

Una  and  the  Lion 

Venus,  To 

Viola  disguised,  and  the  Duke 

Virginia 

When  I  do  count  the  Clock    . 

Woman 

Wood-Fire,  The 


Coleridge 
Chaucer     . 
Waller  . 
Messinger 
Worclstoorth . 
Coventry  Patmore 
Herrick , 
Heber 
Montrose 
Shakspeare 
E.  B.  Broioning  . 
Emerson   . 
A.  Cunningham    . 

:^'.  p.  Willis  . 

Donne    . 
D.  A.  Wdsson  . 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
Lovelace   . 
Wordsworth  . 
Tennyson  . 
Cowper  . 
Shakspeare 
Julia  R.  C.  Dorr  . 
William  Barnes 
Whittier 
AUingham 
Herrick 
Heywood  . 
Clough  . 
Patmore    . 
T.  Lodge 
Patmore    . 
Patmore 
iron 


By  rot 
HerrL 


errick 


Ben  Jonson 

Ben  Jonson    , 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare    . 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare    . 

Sidney  H.  Morse 

Thoreau 

A.  Cunningham 

Coventry  Patmore 

Shakspeare 

Spenser  .... 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Shakspeare    . 

Chaucer     . 

Shakspeare    . 

Prof.  Wilson  (Trans.) 

E.  S.  If.         .        .        . 


XV 

73 


INTELLECTUAL. 


Memory.  —  Inspiration.  —  Imagination.  —  Fancy.  —  Music.  —  Art.  — 
Beauty.  —  Moods. 


jEolian  Harp 

Alexander's  Feast    . 

Art  and  Nature     .... 

Cathedral 

Compliment  to  Queen  Elizabeth 
Comus :  a  Mask 

Critic,  To  the         .... 
Cuckow  and  the  Nightingale  . 

Daedalus 

Dreams 

Fantasy 


Allingham 
Dryden  . 
Shakspeare 
Congreve 
Shakspeare 
Milto7i    . 
Tennyson . 
Chaucer 
Sterling    . 
Scott       . 
Ben  Jonson 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


Fairies 

Fame 

Flower,  The 

Foresight 

Harp,  To  the 

Hurts  of  Time 

Inspiration 

Inspiration 

Kilmeny 

Kins  Lear 

Kubla  Khan 

Locksley  Hall 

Memory 

Memoiy 

Moods 

Morning 

Muse,  Tlie 

Music,  To 

Music 

Music 

Mythology 

Not  Every  Day  Fit  for  Verse        .... 

Ode  to  Himself 

Orpheus  with  liis  Lute 

Passions,  The :  an  Ode  for  Music 

PhcBnix  and  Turtle  Dove 

Pleasures  of  Imagination 

Poet,  The 

Poet,  The 

Poet's  Mood 

praise  of  Homer,  The 

Prayer  to  Apollo 

Queen  Mab 

Questionings 

Kabia 

Komeo's  Presage 

.Scale  of  Minds 

Ships  at  Sea 

Socrates 

Song  from  Gypsies'  Metamorphoses     . 

Song  of  Fionnuala,  The 

Sonnet :"  O  how  mucli  more  doth  " 

Sonnet:  "From  vou  have  I  been"     . 

Sonnet  on  First  t,ookrng  into  Chapman's  Homer 

Soul's  Errand,  The 

St.  Cecilia's  Day 

Steamboats,  Viaducts,  and  Railways 

Supplication,  A 

Thought  

Ulysses 

Under  the  Portrait  of  Milton      .... 

White  Island,  The 

Outline 

Writing  Verses 


Warton     . 
Ben  Jonson    . 
George  Herbert 
Shakspeare  . 
Drayton    . 
Byron     . 
Bums 
Thoreau 
James  Hogg 
Shakspeare 
Coleridge  . 
Tennyson 
Tennyson  . 
Channing 
Sir  J.  Suckling 
Alihuiham     . 
George  Wither 
Mrs.  Hemans 
Keats 

W.  Strode     . 
Coleridge  . 
He'rrick  . 
Ben  Jonson 
Shakspeare   . 
Collins 
Shakspeare   . 
Akenside  . 
C.  S.T  . 
Chaucer    . 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
George  Chapman     . 
Chaucer. 
Shakspeare 
F.  H.  Hedge  . 
J.  F.  Clarke  {Trans.) 
Shakspeare   . 
Wordsicorth     . 
It.  B.  Coffin   . 
Young 

Ben  jonson   . 
Moore 

Shakspeare   . 
Shakspeare 
Keats     . 
Baleigh     . 
Dryden  . 
Wordsworth     , 
Cowley  . 
H.  H. 
Tennyson 
Dryden     . 
Merrick  . 
Wordsworth     . 
Bums     . 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —MORAL.  —RELIGIOUS. 


MA2f.  — Virtue.  — Honor. — Time.  — Fate.  — Sleep.  — Dreams 
—  Death.  —  Immortality.  —  Hymns  and  Odes. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem Leigh  Hunt 

Affliction Herbert . 

Angels,  The Drummond 

An  Honest  Man's  Fortune John  Fletcher 

Before  Sleep Sir  T.  Browne  , 

Burning  Babe,  Tlie .Southwell 

Celinda Lord  Herbert    . 

Chai-acter Coleridge 

Cliurcli  Porch,  The Herbert 

Christmas Tennyson 

Chriatmas  Carol,  The Wordsworth 


CONTENTS. 


XVll 


Christmas  Hymn 
Come  Morir 

Miltmi       .... 

S.  G.  W. 

Herbert       .... 

.      1{ 

If 

Consolers,  The S.  G.  W. 

Death's  Final  Conquest James  Shirley 

Dependence       «...                .        •        •        •     Cowper  .        .        .        •        • 

It 
.      1( 

Destiny Chaucer 

Divine'  Love Wesley  ( Trans.)  . 

Duty,  Ode  to Wordsworth     . 

If 

Easter                 .        .                Herbert  ..... 

V 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard  .        .        .        Gray         .... 
Elixir,  The Herbert          .... 

English  Channel Wordsworth     . 

Eton  College      .........     Gray      ..... 

.     1^ 
1- 

r 

Forecast                              .......     Ohaucer        .... 

If 

If 

Good  Omens                      .......    Shakspeare   .... 

If 

Gratefulness Herbert      .... 

If 

Hamlet's  Soliloquy Shakspeare  .... 

Happy  Life,  The Wotton      .... 

Honest  Poverty Bums 

i( 
1- 

Humility R  M.  Milnes 

1-: 

Hymn  to  Christ,  A        .        .                ....        Donne        .... 

Hynni  to  God,  My  God,  in  my  Sickness        .        .        .     Donne 

Hymn  :  "  Lord,  when  I  quit  this  Earthly  Stage  "    .        Watts        .... 
Hyperion  :  "  As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  Fairer  "         .    Keats 

•        li 

li 

.        1{ 

r 

Immortal  Mind,  The Byron 

Inscription  on  Melrose  Abbey Anonymous 

Inscription  on  a  Wall  in  St.  Edmund's  Church,  in 

Lombard  St.,  London Anonymous    .... 

Inscription  in  Marble  in  the  Parish  Church  of  Faver- 

sham,  in  Agro  Cantiano Anonymous 

Jev      .        .                        H.  H 

r 
.     i( 

i< 

.     i( 
1, 

i( 

Life Herbert      .      ^        .        . 

.     If 

Life Mrs.  Barbaula     . 

Life Lonafellow 

H 
16 

Life  and  Death      .        . Shakspeare 

16 
'IS 

r 

^4 

M- 

My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  is Byrd 

Narayena:  Spirit  of  God Sir.  Wm.  Jones  {Trans.) 

New  Prince,  New  Pomp Southwell      .... 

Old  Man's  Funeral,  The Bryant 

Orthodoxy W.  Blake       .... 

Peafe                                -                                  ...        Herbert      .... 

17 
17 
1£ 
18 
IS 

le 

15 
Ifi 

Penitence 
Pilgi-image     . 
Poet's  Hope,  A 
Praise  to  God 
Pravers 

Younq    

Sir  W.  Raleigh 

Chanving     .... 

Mrs.  Barbauld 

...    Shakspeare    .... 

15 
16 
15 
18 
Ifi 

Herbert      .... 

It' 

^fi 

Psalm  XCIII. 
Psalm  XVIIL    . 
Psalm  CXXXIX. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  . 

Stemhold      .... 

Sir  Philip  Sidney    . 

17 
18 
17 

Piillev.  Tlie 

Herbert 

14 

Herbert      .... 

14 

Retreat,  The     . 
Ke volutions   . 

Henry  Vaughan  . 

Shakspeare       .        .        . 

17 
1.^ 

Satan 

Seven  Ages,  The 
Shepherds,  The 
Shield.  The    . 

Richard  Crashato 

Shakspeare 

Drummond    .... 

S.G.W..        .        .       . 

17 
15 

19 
15 

xvm 


CONTENTS. 


Sing  unto  the  Lord 
Skeptic,  Tlie     . 
Skull,  The     . 
Sleep  . 


Sleep 

Stanzas  written  in   the   Churchyard  of  Richmond 

Yorkshire 

Star-Song.  The 

Strangers,  The 

Snn-Dial 

Thanatopsis 

That  Each  Thing  is  hurt  of  Itself     .... 
'J  he  Spacious  Firmament  on  High       .... 

Tithonus 

To  Be  no  More 

Touchstone,  The 

Two  went  up  into  the  Temple  to  pray 

Undertaking,  The 

Virtue 

Wayfarers 

Wisdom 


Herbert 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 
Wordsworth     . 
Bjiron     . 
Snakspeare 
Young    . 

Herbert  Knowles 
Herrick  . 
Jones  Very 
Montgomery  . 
Bryant 
Anonymous    . 
Addison     . 
Tennyson 
Milton 
Allingham     . 
Richard  Crashaw 
Donne     . 
Herbert 
E.S.H. 
Coventry  Patmore 


HEROIC. 
Patriotic.  —  Historic.  —  Political. 


Ahraham  Lincoln 

Antony  over  the  Dead  Body  of  Cfesar  . 

Ariadne's  Farewell 

Bannockburn  

Bard,  The 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic       .... 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 

Battle  on  St.  Crispian's  Day  .... 

Bay  Fight,  The 

Boadicea 

Bonduca 

Bunker  Hill 

Cassius 

Chicago 

Chivalry 

Christian  Militajit 

Commemoration  Ode 

Constancy 

Coronation 

Cromwell  and  King  Charles 

Cumberland,  The 

Defiance 

Entrance  of  Columbus  into  Barcelona     . 
E|)istle  to  a  Friend  to  persuade  him  to  the  Wars 

Flag,  The 

George  Washington 

Greeting  to  "  The  George  Griswold  " 

Happy  Warrior,  The 

Henry  V.'s  Audience  of  French  Ambassadors 

Heroism 

Hohenlinden 

Hotspur's  Quarrel  with  Henry  IV. 

Hotspur 

Ichabod     

Indians 

In  State 

In  the  Fight .       . 

Jephtliah  8  Daughter 

John  Brown  of  Osawatomie       .... 

Kin;'  Richard's  Soliloquy 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  The 

Ix)chier«  Warning 

Lost  Le.'uler.  The 

Loyal  Woman's  No,  A 


Tom  Taylor      . 

Shakspeare   . 

H.H.         .        . 

Bums     . 

Gray  . 

Julia  Ward  Howe 

Campbell  . 

Shakspeare    . 

H.  H.  Broicnell 

Coivper  .... 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

O.  Mellen 

Shakspeare 

Bret  Harte     . 

Ben  Jonson 

Herrick  . 

Lowell 

Herbert  .        . 

H.  H. 

Marvell . 

Lonqfellow 

Scott  .    . 

G.  Mellen 

Ben  Jonson    . 

Julia  Ward  Hoioe 


Punch 

Wordsworth  . 
Shakspeare 
Coleridge  {Trans.) 
Campbell  . 
Shakspeare    . 
Shakspeare 
Whittier 
Charles  Spraque 
Forceythe  Willson 
Tennyson 
Byron     . 
E.  C.  Stedman 
Shakspeare    . . 
Mrs.  Hemans    . 
Campbell 
Robert  Browning 
Lucy  Larcom  . 


CONTENTS. 


XIX 


Maryland 
Mason  and  Slidell 
Master  Spirit^  The 
Murat 


Never  or  Now 

Ode  on  Decorating  the  Graves  of  the  Confederate  Sol 

diers        . . 

Old  Ironsides 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piemont        .... 

Port  Royal,  At 

Prayer.  The 

Kequiem 

Royalty 

Samson  Agonistes 

Schill 

Scotland 

Song  of  Saul  before  his  Last  Battle      .... 
Sonnet:  "Alas!  what  boots  the  long"     . 
Sonnet :  "  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that " 

Speech  of  the  Dauphin 

Sunthin  in  a  Pastoral  Line 

Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjugation  of  Switzer 

land 

Vision,  The 

Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  The     .... 

Washers  of  the  Shroud,  The 

Waterloo 

Westward  the  Star  of  Empire 

What  the  Birds  said 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 


J.  R.  Randall 
Lowell    . 
George  Chapman 
Byron     . 
O.  W.  Holmes 


Henry  Timrod 

O.  W.  Holmes 

Milton    . 

Whittier    . 

Tennyson 

George  Lunt 

D.  A.  Wasson 

Milton 

Wordsworth 

Burns 

Byron 

Wordsworth 

Wordstoorth 

Shakspeare 

Lowell    . 


Wordsicorth 
Bums     . 
Longfellow 
Lowell    . 
Byron 
G.  Berkeley 
Whittier  . 
Campbell 


POKTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


Addison,  Portrait  of Pope 

Agassiz,  Fiftieth  Birthday  of         ......  Longfellow 

A  King Robert  Browning  . 

Alexander  Pope,  Lines  to David  Lewis     . 

Ben  Jonson,  Ode  to Herrick  . 

Black  Prince,  The Shakspeare 

Burial  of  Moses Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander 

Campbell,  To Moore 

Caliph's  Encampment,  The Moore     . 

Cleopatra Shakspeare 

Coriolanus Shakspeare    . 

Shakspeare 


'cspe 
Ben  Jonson   . 
Ben  Jonson  {Trans.) 
Byron     . 
Donne 
Shakspeare   . 


Coriolanus  at  Antium 
Countess  of  Rutland,  To  the 
Cowley's  Epigram  on  Sir  Francis  Drake 
Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The 
Elegy  on  Mistress  Elizabeth  Drury 
Entrance  of  Bolingbroke  into  London 

Epigram Ben  Jonson 

Epitaph  on  Shakspeare Milton   . 

Epitaph:  *' Underneath  this  sable  hearse"        .        .  Ben  Jonson 

Epitaph:  "Underneath  this  stone  doth  lye"  .        .  Ben  Jonson   . 

Execution,  The Byron 

Fare  Thee  Well Byron     . 

Fop,  The Shakspeare 

Forging  of  the  Anchor,  The S.  Ferguson 

George  Peabody,  To O.  W.  Holmes  . 

Gladiator,  The Byron     . 

Henry  V Shakspeare 

Ice  Palace,  The Cowper  . 

Lines  in  a  Lady's  Album Daniel  Webster 

Love  of  England Byron     . 

Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford,  On Ben  Jonson 

Man  of  Ross  The Pope 

Milton,  To Wordsworth 

Mountain  Daisy,  To  a Bums     . 

Mouse,  To  a Bums 

Nebuchadnezzar Gower    . 

Nestor  to  Hector Shakspeare 


XX 


CONTENTS. 


No  More 

On  his  Blindness 

Outward  Bound 

Palm  and  Pine 

Prayer  to  Ben  Jonson 

Prisoner  of  Chilion,  The 

Rob  Roy's  Grave 

Santa  Filomena 

Siege  of  Corinth 

Sir  Henry  Vane,  To 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

Soldier's  Dream,  The 

Sonnet :  "  O  for  mjr  sake  do  you  with  fortune  chide !  " 
Sonnet,  on  his  being  aixived  to  the  age  of  twenty 

three    

Spenser  at  Court 

Stanzas,  "  Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over  " 
To  live  Merrily  and  to  trust  to  Good  "Verses 

Wants  of  Man,  The 

When  the  Assault  was  intended  to  the  City 
William  Sidney  on  his  Birthday,  To        .       .       . 


Byron    . 

Afilton 

Buron     . 

Milnea 

Herrick  . 

Biiron 

Wordsworth 

Longfellow 

Byron 

Milton 

Matthew  Royden 

Campbell  . 

Shakspeare 

Milton 
Spenser . 
Byron 
Herrick  . 
J.  Q.  Adams 
Milton    . 
Ben  Jonson 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


Alfred  the  Harper 
Alice  Brand 
Allen-a-Dale  . 
Amy  Wentworth 
Auld  liobin  Gray  . 
Battle  of  Harlaw 
Boy  of  Egremond.  The 
Braes  of  Yarrow,  The 
Bristowe  Tragedy . 
Bruce  and  the  Abbot 
Child  Dyring  . 
Children  in  the  Wood 
Chimney-Sweep,  The    . 
Crowning  of  Arthur,  The 
Drowned  Lovers,  The  . 
Duchess  May,  Rhyme  of  . 
Earl  o'  Quarterdeck,  The 
Fair  Annie 
Fair  Helen      . 
Fidelity      .... 

Fitz  Traver's  Song 
Friar  of  Orders  Gray 
Garci  Perez  de  Vargas  . 
Gate  of  Camelot,  The 
Gay  Go88-Hawk,  The   . 
George  Nidiver 
Glenara  .... 

Glenlogie    .... 

Graeme  and  Bewick 
Griselda     .... 

Heir  of  Linne,  The 

Helvellyn    ...... 

High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire,  The 

House  of  IJuHyrane 

How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent 

Island;  The 

King  John  and  the  Abbot  of  Canterbury 

Kinmont  Willie 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere     . 
Lady  Clare 

Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship 
Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,  The 
Lochinvar       .... 

Mass,  The 

CEnone ;  or,  the  Choice  of  Paris 
Relief  of  Lucknow,  The  . 
Bhotruda       .... 


toAix 


Sterling    . 

Scott      . 

Scott . 

Whittier 

Lady  Anne  Lindsay 

Scott      . 

Wordsworth     . 

W.  Hamilton 

T.  Chatterton  . 

Scott 

Scott . 

Anonymous    . 

E.  S.H.. 

Tennyson 

Anonymous 

E.  B.  Browning    . 

George  MacDonald 

Scott 

Scott . 


Wordsworth  . 
Scott . 
Scott      . 
Lockhart  . 
Tennyson 
Scott 
E.H.      . 


Campbell  . 

Smith's  Scottish  Minstrel 

Scott . 

Chaucer 

Percrfs  Reliques 

Scott      . 

Jean  Ingelow    . 

Spenser  . 

Robert  Browning 

Byron     . 

Percy's  Reliques 

Scott 

Tennyson  . 

Tennyson 

E.  B.  Broioning 

Moore    . 

Scott . 

Scott 

Tennyson . 

Robert  Loioell 

Tuckerman 


CONTENTS. 


XXI 


Rosabelle . 

Sally  from  Coventry,  The     . 

Sea-Cave,  The 

Skipper  Iresoii's  Ride   .... 

Siege  and  Conquest  of  Alhama 

Sir  Andrew  Barton        .... 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Sir  Pavon  and  St.  Pavon 
Song  of  the  Tonga-Islanders  . 
Svend  Vonved        .        .        .        .        . 

Telling  the  Bees 

Vision  of  Belshazzar    .... 
Waly,  Waly,  but  Love  be  Bonny  . 
Wild  Huntsman,  The   .... 
William  of  Cloudesle       .... 

Winstanley 

Wreck  of  "  The  Grace  of  Sunderland" 


Scott      . 

G.  W.  Tkombury 

Byron     . 

Whittier   . 

Byron     . 

Anonymous 

Anonymous   . 

Sara  H.  Palfrey 

Anonymous   . 

George  Borrow  (Trans 

Whittier 

Byron 

Anonymous   . 

Scott  {Trans.)  . 

Anonymous   . 

Jean  Ingelow    . 

Jean  Ingelow 


SONGS. 


Althea,  To 

Araby's  Daughter     .... 
Ariel's  Song   .        .        .        . 
Auld  Lang  Syne       .... 
A  Weary  Lot  is  Thine  .... 
Banks  of  Doon,  The 
Blow,  Blow,  thou  Winter  Wind  . 
Boatie  Rows,  The     .... 

Bonny  Dundee 

Bridal  of  Andalla,  The   . 

Brignall  Banks 

Bugle-Song,  The      .... 
Canadian  Boat-Song    .        .        .       . 

Celia,  To 

Ceres,  Song  to 

Clan-Alpine,  Song  of       .       .        . 
Come  Away,  Come  Away,  Death 

County  Guy 

Disdain  Returned .        .        .       . 
Dying  Bard,  The       .... 
Full  Fathom  Five  thy  Father  Lies     . 

Garden  Song 

Goldilocks 

Go,  Lovely  Rose !      .        .        .        . 

Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark! 

Hero  to  Leander       .... 

Jeanie  Morrison 

John  Anderson,  My  Jo    . 

Love 

Love's  Young  Dream 

Manly  Heart,  The  .... 

Mary' Donnelly 

Masque  of  Pleasure  and  Virtue 
Night  Piece :  to  Julia 

Night-Sea,  The 

Of  A'  the  Airts 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night  .... 
O  my  Luve's  like  a  Red,  Red  Rose 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

River  Song 

Rose,  To  the 

Sailor,  The 

Song  of  Echo 

Song 

Song  from  Jason 

Song  from  Neptune's  Triumph 
Song :  "  Shake  off  your  heavy  trance ' 
Song:  "When  Daisies  Pied'* 
Take,  O  Take  Those  Lips  away  . 


Lovelace    . 

Aloore 

Shakspeare 

Burns     . 

Scott . 

Bums 

Shakspeare 

Anonymous    . 

Scott  . 

Lockhart 

Scott  . 

Tennyson 

Moore 

Ben  Jonson    . 

Leigh  Hunt 

Scott 

Shakspeare 

Scott 

Thomas  Carew 

Scott 

Shakspeare 

Tennyson 

Jean  Ingelow   . 

Waller  . 

Shakspeare 

Tennyson 

Motherwell 

Bums     . 

Samuel  Daniel 

Moore 

G.  Wither 

Allingham     . 

Ben  Jonson 

Herrick  . 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford 

Bums     . 

Moore 

Bums     . 

Scott . 

F.  B.  Sanborn 

Herrick 

Allingham     . 

Ben  jonson 

Milton    . 

William  Morris 

Ben  Jonson    . 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Shakspeare   . 

Shakspeare 


xxu 


CONTENTS. 


Tell  Me  where  is  Fancy  Bred Shakspeare  . 

Thekla'8  Song       . Anonymous  {Trans.) 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls  .        .       .  Moore     . 

There's  Nae  Luck  about  the  House  .        .        .       .  W.  J.  Mickle    . 

Uuder  the  Greenwood-Tree Shakspeare  . 


441 

447 
435 
437 
440 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


Braes  of  Yarrow,  Tlie 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at  Cortmna,  The . 

Coronach 

Departed 

Deserted  House,  The 

Dion 

Dirge  for  Dorcas 

Dirge:  "He  is  gone  — is  dust" 

Dirge  in  Cj'mbeline 

Epitaph  from  Simonides 

Fear  no  More  the  Heat  o'  th'  Sun      .... 

He's  Gane 

Hosea  Biglow's  Lament 

Laborer,  The 

Lachrinine ;  or,  Mirth  turned  to  Mourning   .       . 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencaini 

Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  on  the  Approach  of 
Spring 

Lines  written  at  Grasmere  on  Tidings  of  the  Approach- 
ing Death  of  Charles  James  Fox    .... 

Lycidas . 

Lykewake  Dirge 

Murdered  Traveller,  Tlie         .        .        .        .... 

Nymph  Mourning  her  Fawn,  The      .       ... 

Ode :  "  How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest "  . 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson 

Ode  on  the  Consecration  of  Sleepy-HoUow  Cemetery 

On  Sir  Philip  Sidney 

On  the  Loss  of  the  "  I^yal  George  "... 

Othello's  Last  Words 

Sleepy  Hollow 

Thvrsis 

"Wiiiding-She^t,  To  his 


J.  Logan 456 

Charles  Wolfe      ...  466 
Scott  .       .        .        .        .        .461 

Wordsworth ....  471 

Tennyson 457 

Wordsworth ....  475 

Herrick 461 

Coleridge  {Trans.)       .       .  459 

Collins 460 

Anonymous    ....  463 

Shakspeare      ....  461 

Bums 458 

Lowell 476 

John  Clare        ....  456 

Herrick 455 

Bums 458 

Bums 456 

Wordsworth     ....  463 

Milton 467 

Anon, 459 

Bryant 457 

Marvell 455 

Collins 459 

Tennyson 464 

Collins 462 

F.  B.  Sanborn  ....  462 

Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brooke  467 

Coioper 463 

Shakspeare   ....  476 

Channing 460 

Matthew  Arnold  ...  471 
Herrick      .       .       .       .       .458 


COMIC  AND  HUMOROUS. 
Satirical. 


Atheism 

Chiquita 

Collusion  between  a  Alegaiter  and  a  Water-Snaik    . 

Contentment 

Cosmic  Egg,  The 

DorotliyQ 

Fight  over  the  Body  of  Keitt,  The       .... 

Her  Letter 

His  Answer  to  "Her  Letter" 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer 

Jove  and  the  Souls 

Mignonette 

Old  Cove,  The 

Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry,  The 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James  .... 

Puritans 

Rudoli)h,  The  Headsman 

TamO'Shanter 

The  Coiirtin'      .        .        . 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece;  or,  The  Wonderful  One- 
Hoss-Shay . 


Clmgh      . 

Bret  Harte     . 

J.  W.Morris     .      . 

Holmes  . 

Anonymous 

Holmes 

Punch    .        . 

Bret  Harte 

Bret  Harte    . 

Bums 

Swift      . 

G.  B.  Bartlett  . 

H.  HBrovmell     . 

Lowell 

Bret  Harte    . 

Butler 

Holmes  . 

Bums 

Lowell   .       .       . 

'Holmes      .       . 

.  497 
502 

.  491 
499 

.  505 
.      498 

500 
.      495 

496 
.        .      481 

502 
.      505 

502 
.      483 

504 
.      501 

503 
.        .      484 

494 

.        .      492 

CONTENTS. 


XXlll 


Tlie  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Grinder    ,  Canning 

To  the  Devil Burns 

To  the  Unco  Guid ;  or,  the  Rigidly  Righteous  .        .  Burns     . 

Witch  of  Fife,  The Bogg  . 


504 
483 

482 
487 


POETRY  OF  TERROR. 


Apparition,  The Byron     . 

Clarence's  Dream Shakspeare 

Corsair,  The Byron     . 

Crime Shakspeare 

Hesitation Shakspeare 

Incantation  from  Manfred Byron 

1  see  Men's  Judgments  are     .        .        .        .       .        .  Shakspeare 

Macbeth  is  ripe  for  shaking Shakspeare 

Manfred Byron     . 

Merciful  Heaven Shakspeare 

Remorse Shakspeare   .... 

Song  of  the  Parcse Goethe  trans,  by  Frothingham 

Thea Keats 


The  Gods  are  Just 

This  Army  led  by  a  DeUcate  and  Tender  Prince 

Tiger,  The 

To  beguile  the  time 

Turner 

"When  vre  in  our  viciousness  grow  hard 


Shakspeare 
Shakspeare    . 
William  Blake 
Shaks2)eare    . 
J.  J.  G.  Wilkinson 
Shakspeare    . 


514 
511 
512 
510 
512 
512 
511 
510 
513 
511 
510 
510 
509 
511 
512 


510 


ORACLES  AND  COUNSELS. 


Good  Coun 

Antony  and  the  Soothsayer 

Beware 

Cleopatra's  Resolution 

Courage      

Each  and  all 

Faith 

Firmness 

Good  Heart        ..... 

Guidance 

Human  Life       .        .  '     . 
If  men  be  worlds  .... 
Knowing  the  heart  of  man     . 
Mine  honesty  and  I  begin  to  square 
Mother's  Blessing     .... 
O  how  feeble  is  man's  power 
Opportunity 

SEL 

Sup 

REME  Hours. 

Shakspeare 
.    Scott       . 
.    '   Shakspeare 
.    Shakspeare    . 

Shakspeare 
.    Mrs.  Kemble. 

Shakspeare 
.    Bums     . 

Shakspeare 
.    Shakspeare   . 

Donne 
.    Daniel    . 

Shakspeare 
.    Shakspeare   . 

Donne 
.    Shakspeare    . 

Keats 
.    Shakspeare    i 

E.  S.  H.     . 
.    Donne     . 

Shakspeare 
.     Shakspeare    . 

Wordsworth 
.     Wordsworth . 

Shakspeare 

The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook 

The  Nobly  Born 

The  recluse  hermit  .... 
There  is  a  history  .... 
There  is  a  mystery   .... 

True  Dignity 

Trust  ....... 

Ulysses  and  AchiUes    . 

519 

517 
521 
520 
520 
518 
521 
518 
521 
521 
517 
517 
521 
520 
517 
517 
518 
520 
518 
517 
517 
517 
520 
521 
518 


INDEX  OF  AUTHOES. 


Adams,  Jom?  Qumcr. 

Bom  in  Quincy,  Mass.,  1767:  died 

1848. 

The  Wants  of  Man 280 

Addisok,  Joseph. 

Bom  in  Wiltshire,  Eng.,  1672;  died 

1719. 

The  Spacious  Firmament    .        .       .      180 

Akenside,  Mark. 

Bom  in  Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 

1721;  died  1770. 

Pleasures  of  Imagination       .       .        .99 

Alexakdeb,  Mrs.  C.  F. 
Burial  of  Moses 290 

Allikgham,  William. 
Bom  in  Ireland. 

Mary  Donnelly 434 

Morning 94 

^olian  Harp  130 

The  Bird 36 

The  Pilot's  Daughter       ....    77 

The  Sailor 436 

The  Touchstone 158 

Arnold,  Matthew. 

Bom  in  England,  1822. 

Thyrsis 471 

Barbauld,  Anna  L^titia. 

Bom  in  Leicestershire,  Eng.,  1743; 

died  1825. 

Life 169 

Praise  to  God 183 

Bailey,  Philip  James. 

Bom  in  Nottingham,  Eng.,  1816. 

Forecast 153 

Barnefield,  Richard. 

Bom  in  England. 

The  Nightingale 35 


Barnes,  William. 

Bom  in  Dorsetshire. 

The  Peasant's  Return     .        .        .        .    75 

Babtlett,  George  B. 
Mignonette 605 

Bayly,  Thomas  Haynes. 

Bom  near  Bath,  Eng.,  1797 ;  died 

1839. 

Nightingale's  Song  .       .       .       .       .    35 

Beattie,  James. 
Bom  ill  Scotland,  1735 ;  died  1803. 

Nature 3 

Night 3 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
Francis  Beaumont  bom  in  Leices- 
tershire, 1586;    died  1616.     John 
Fletcher  bom  in  Northampton- 
shire, 1576;  died  in  London,  1625. 

Bonduca 213 

Love  at  First  Sight 71 

Poet's  Mood 138 

Song:  "Shake  off  your  heavy  trance,"  433 
To  Venus 72 

Berkeley,  George. 
Bom  in  Ireland,  1684 ;  died  1573. 
Verse:  "Westward  the  Star  of  Em- 
pire"         225 

Blake,  William. 
Bom  in  London,  1757 ;  died  1828. 

Orthodoxy 158 

The  Suntiower       .....        29 
The  Tiger 509 

Boar,  Arthur. 
The  Breeding  I^ark      ....       36 

Borrow,  George. 
Bom  in  England,  1803. 
Vonved 328 

XXV 


XXVI 


INDEX  OP  AUTHORS. 


Browne,  Sir  Thomas. 

Bom  in  London,  1605;  died  1682. 

Before  Sleep 185 

Brownell,  Henry  IToward. 
Bom  in  Connecticut,  1820  j  died 


The  Bay  Fight 
The  Old  Cove 


1872. 


248 
502 


Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett. 

Bom  in  Txyndon,  1809;  died  in 

Florence,  1861. 

Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship    .       .        .366 

Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May        .       .      404 

The  Lady's  Yes 64 

Browning,  Robert. 

Bom  in  Camberwell,  near  London, 

1812. 

A  King 282 

How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from 

Ghent  to  Aix 355 

The  Lost  Leader 224 

Bryant,  William  Cullen. 

Bom  in  Cummington,  Mass.,  1794. 

Death  of  the  Flowera      .        .       .        .29 

Song  of  the  Stars  .....       44 

TliaiiJitopsis 168 

The  Murdered  Traveller  .  .  .  457 
Tlie  OhI  Man's  Funeral  .  .  .  .167 
The  Rivulet.  ......       25 

To  a  Waterfowl 37 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian      .       .       .       30 

Burns,  Robert. 

Bom.  near  Ayr,  Scotland,  1759: 

died  1796. 

Auld  Lang  Syne 439 

Bunks  of  Doon 447 

JJjuniockbum 219 

He's  Gane 458 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer       .       .        .        .481 

Honest  Poverty 147 

Inspiration        ......    95 

John  Antlerson,  my  Jo  .  .  .  438 
Lament  for  .James,  Earl  of  Glencaim  .  458 
Lament  of  Mai^y,  Queen  of  Scots  .  456 
Of  a'  the  Airts  ihe  Win<l  can  Blaw  .  442 
Oh,  my  Luve's  like  a  lied,  Red  Rose  .      443 

Scotland 220 

Tarn  O'  Shanter 484 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night .       .       .53 

The  Good  Heart 618 

The  Vision 219 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy  .  .  .  .279 
To  a  Mouse        ......  278 

To  the  Devil 483 

To  the  Unco  Guld 482 

Winter 22 

Winter  Night 24 

Writing  Verses      .....       96 

Butler,  Samuel. 

Bom  in  Worcestershire,  1612;  died 

in  London,  1680. 

I»uritan8 601 


Byrd,  William. 

Bom  in  England,  about  1540 ;  died 

1623. 

My  Minde  to  me  a  Kingdom  is  .        .      154 

Byron,  George  Gordon  (Lord). 

Bom  in  London,  1788 ;  died  in 

Greece,  1824. 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib    .       .        .  282 

Fare  Thee  Well 277 

Hurts  of  Time 133 

Incantation,  from  Manfred  .  .  512 
Island  (The  Sea  Cave)      .        .       .        .378 

Jephthah's  Daughter 203 

Lachin  y  Gair 26 

Love  of  England 277 

Manfred 513 

Murat 223 

No  More 278 

Outward  Bound 276 

She  Walks  hi  Beauty  .  .  .^  .  59 
Siege  and  Conquest  of  Alhama  .  .  310 
Siege  of  Corinth       .....  284 

Solitude 28 

Song  of  Saul  before  his  Last  Battle  .  203 
Stanzas :  "  Though  the  day  of  "         .      276 

Sunset 42 

Swimming 2I 

The  Apparition         ,       ^       .       .       .  514 

The  Corsair 512 

The  Execution 284 

The  Gladiator 283 

The  Immortal  Mind         ....  172 

The  Island 377 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  .       .        .       .  283 

The  Rainbow 46 

The  Sea 39 

The  Skull 17I 

The  Storm 42 

Vision  of  Belshazzar  ....  416 
Waterloo    .       .        .       .        .  •     .        .  222 

Calidasa. 
Supposed  to  have  lived  about  50  B.  C. 

The  Babe  (Sir  William  Jones's  trans- 
lation)        56 

Woman  (Prof.  Wilson's  translation)     .    58 

Campbell,  Thomas. 

Bom  in  Glasgow,  1777;  died  in 

Boulogne,  1844. 

Battle  of  the  Baltic      ....      220 

Glenara 363 

Hohenlinden 223 

Hope 45 

Lochiel's  Warning        ....      217 

To  the  Rainbow 46 

The  Soldier's  Dream  ....  289 
Ye  Mariuei-s  of  England  .        .        .        .221 

Canning,  George. 

Bom  in  London,  1770 ;  died  in  Chis- 

wick,  1827. 

The  Knife-Grinder       ....      504 

Carew,  Thomas. 

Bor7i  in  Devonshire,  Eng.,  1589; 

died  1639. 

Disdain  Returned     '.       .       .       .       .  446 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XXVll 


Chastning,  WnxiAM  Ellery. 
Bom  in  Boston. 

Memory 92 

Sea  Song 38 

Sleepy  Hollow 460 

The  Earth-Spirit 27 

The  Flight  of  the  Wild  Geese     .        .       37 

The  Hillside  Cot 7 

The  Mountain 6 

The  Poet's  Hope 153 

Chapman,  George. 

Bom  in  England,  1557 ;  died  in 

London,  1634. 

The  Master  Spirit 198 

The  Praise  of  Homer       .        .        .        .93 

Chatterton,  Thomas. 

Bom  in  Bristol,  Eng.,  1752 ;  died 

1770. 

Bristowe  Tragedy 343 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey. 

Bom  in  London,  1328;  died  1400. 

Ariadne     .......    75 

Destiny 152 

Duchesse  Blanche 60 

Forecast 153 

Fox  and  Cock 16 

Gentility 83 

Griselda     .......  385 

Prayer  to  Apollo 96 

The'  Cuckow  and  the  Nightingale  .        ,    97 

Tlie  Milky  Way 45 

The  Poet 96 

Virginia 67 

Clare,  John. 

Bom,  in  England,  1793 ;  died  1864. 

The  Laborer 456 

Clarke,  James  Freeman. 

Bom  in  Boston. 

Babia  (translation) 140 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh. 

Bom  in  Liverpool,  1819;  died  in 

Florence,  1861. 

Atheism 497 

Bathing;  from  The  Bothie  of  Toberna 

Vuolich 20 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus        .        .        .        .82 

Coffin,  R.  B, 

Bom  in  America. 

Ships  at  Sea 122 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor. 

Born  in  Devonshire,  Eng.,  1772; 

died  1834. 

Character       ....  .       .  154 

Dirge :  He  is  gone  —  is  dust  (trans,  from 

Schiller) 459 

Genevieve 73 

Heroism  (trans,  from  Schiller)   .       .      195 

Kubla  Khan 126 

Mythology  (trans,  from  Schiller)        .      120 


Collins,  William. 

Bom  in  Chichester,  Eng.,  1720; 
died  1756. 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline 460 

Ode :  '•  How  sleep  the  brave  "     .        .      459 
Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson      .       .  462 

Ode  lo  Evening 43 

The  Passions 128 


Congreve,  William. 

Bom  near  Leeds.  Eng.,  1670;  died 

1729. 

The  Cathedral 133 


CoTVLEV,  Abraham. 
Born  in  London  1618 ;  died  1667. 

A  Supplication 129 

Epigram    on    Drake    (trans,    by   Ben 
Jonson) 268 

CowPER,  William. 

Bom  in  Hertfordshire,  Eng.,  1731; 
died  1800. 

Boadicea 212 

Dependence 182 

Loss  of  "  The  Royal  George  "  .  .  .463 
My  Motlier's  Picture    ....        52 

Providence 182 

The  Ice  Palace 288 

Crasha-w,  Richard. 
Born  in  England;  died  1650. 

Satan 179 

Two  went  up  in  to  the  Temple  to  Pray  .  180 

Cunningham,  Allan. 

Bom  in  Blackioood.  Scotland,  1784; 
died  1842. 

SearSong:  "A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing 

sea" 39 

The  Lily  of  Nithsdale  ....  75 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie,  66 

Daniel,  Samuel. 

Bom  in  Taunton,  Eng.,  1562;  died 

1619. 

Knowing  the  Heart  of  Man  is  set  to  be,  517 
Love 446 

Donne,  John. 

Born  in  Tuondon  1573;  died  1631. 

Eleg>'  on  Mistress  Elizabeth  Diiiry        .  273 

Ecstasy 70 

Hvmn  to  God.  my  God,  in  my  Sickness,  186 

Hvnin  to  Christ ISO 

If  Men  be  Worlds         ....      517 

Love 62 

Oh.  how  feeble  is  Man's  Power  .  .  517 
The  recluse  Hermit  ....  517 
The  UndertaMng 154 


XXVIU 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Dorr,  Jitlia  C.  R. 

Born  in  America. 

Outgrown 64 

Drayton,  Michael. 

Bom  in  England,  1563;  died  1631. 

The  Harp 130 

Drummond,  William. 
Bom  in  Scotland,  1585;  died  1649. 

The  Angels 190 

The  Shepherds 190 

Dryden,  John. 
Bom  in  Northamptonshire,  Eng., 
1631 ;  died  1700. 
Alexander's  Feast        .        .        .        .130 

St.  Cecilia's  Day 127 

Under  the  Portrait  of  Milton     .       .       99 

Emerson,  Edward  Bliss. 

Bom  in  Boston,  1805 ;  died  in  Porto 

Rico,  1834. 

The  Last  Farewell 51 

Ferguson,    Sa3iuel. 

Bom  in  Ireland,  about  1805. 

Forging  of  the  Anchor        .        .        .      287 

Frothingham,  N.  L. 
Bom  in  Boston,  1793 ;  died  1870. 
Translation  of   Goethe's  Song  of   the 
Parcae 510 

GowER,  John. 

Bom  in  England,  1320;  died  1402. 

Nebuchadnezzar   .....     265 

Gray,  Thomas. 

Bom  in  London,  1716;  died  1771. 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  169 

Eton  College 148 

The  Bard 215 

Greville.  Fulke  (Lord 

Brooke). 

Bom  in  England,  1554;  died  1628. 

On  Sir  Philip  Sidney        .       .       .       .467 

Hamilton,  William. 

Bom  in  Baiu/onr,  Scotland,  1704; 

died  1764. 

Braes  of  Yarrow 412 

Harte,  Bret. 

Chicago 261 

Chiqmta 602 

Her  Letter 495 

His  Answer  to  her  Letter    .        .       .      496 
Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James  504 


Heber,  Reginald. 

Bom  in  Cheshire,  Eng.,  1783;  died 

1826. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  Love  .       .  53 

Hedge,  Frederic  H. 

Bom  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  1805. 

Questionings 91 

Hemans,  Felicia. 

Bom  in  Liverpool,  Eng.,  1794 ;  died 

1835. 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers     .       .  225 

Music 130 

Nightingale's  Death  Song  .  .  .35 
To  Corinne 51 

Herbert,  George. 
Bom  in  Wales  in  1593 ;  died  1632. 

Affliction 184 

Confession 150 

Constancy 195 

Easter 192 

Gratefulness 184 

Life 151 

Man 143 

Peace 157 

Providence 182 

Sin 159 

The  Church  Porch 145 

The  Elixir 181 

The  Flower 95 

The  Pulley 144 

The  Quip 147 

Virtue 147 

Herbert,  Edward  (Lord  of 

Cherbury). 

Bom  in  London,  1591 ;  died  1648. 

Celinda 172 

Herrick,  Robert. 

Bom  in  London,  1591;  died  1674. 

Argument  of  his  Book         .        .  •     .         3 

Christian  Militant 198 

Corinna's  going  a-Maying    ...       10 

Countrj'  Life 15 

Dirge  for  Dorcas 461 

Hymn  to  the  Graces         .        .        .        .86 
Lachrima; ;  or,  Mirth  turned  to  Mourn- 
ing     455 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit     .       .        .186 

Matins 185 

Night  Piece  to  Julia  ....  445 
Not  Every  Day  fit  for  Verse  .  .  .  93 
Ode  to  Ben  Jonson  ....  270 
Prayer  to  Ben  Jonson      ....  269 

Poetrv  of  Dress 87 

Star  Song 190 

The  Primrose 32 

Tlie  Rose 443 

'Ihe  Wliite  Island         ....      123 

To  Blossoms 33 

To  DafTodills 33 

To  liis  Winding  Sheet  .  .  .  .458 
To  Live  Merrily  and  to  Trust  to  Good 

Verses 269 

To  Silvia 58 


DTDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XXIX 


Hetwood,  John. 

Bom  in  England;  died  1565. 

The  Portrait 65 

E.  H. 

George  Nidiver 327 

Hogg,  James. 

Bom  in  Ettrick,  Scotland,  1772: 

,  died  1835. 

Kilmeny 120 

The  Witch  of  Fife 487 

Holmes,  Oliver  "Wendell. 
Bom  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  1809. 

Contentment 499 

Dorothy  Q 498 

Never  or  Now 232 

Old  Ironsides '226 

Rudolph  the  Headsman       .        .        .      503 
The  Deacon's   Masterpiece;    or,    The 

Wonderful  One-Hoss  Shay      .        .  492 
To  George  Peabody      ....      282 

Howe,  Julia  Ward. 

Bom  in  New  York. 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic         .       .  230 

The  Flag .236 

Hunt,  Leigh. 

Bom  in  Middlesex,  Eng.,  1784; 

died  1859. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 158 

Song  to  Ceres 434 

E.  S.  H. 
The  Chimney  Sweep    ....      339 

The  Nobly  Bom 518 

The  Wood  Fire 56 

Wayfarers 169 

H.  H. 
Ariadne's  Farewell       ....     202 

Coronation 202 

Joy 157 

My  Legacy 176 

Thought 91 

iNGELow,  Jean. 
Bom  in  England,  1825. 

Divided 80 

Goldilocks 443 

High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire  340 

Winstanley 322 

Wreck  of  the  "Grace  of  Sunderland"  320 

Jones,  Sir  William. 

Bom  in  London,  1746;  died  1794. 

Narayena,  Spirit  of  God  (translation)  .  180 

The  Babe  (translation  from  Calidasa)  .    56 

JoNSON,  Ben. 
Bom  in  London,  1574;  died  1637. 

Chivalry 199 

Epigram 269 

Epigram  (trans.) 268 


JoNSON,  Ben  {continued). 
Epistle  to  a  Friend  to  Persuade  Him  to 

the  Wars 196 

Epitaph:     "Underneath    this     sable 

hearse" 269 

Epitaph :  "  Underneath  this  stone  doth 

lye" 268 

Fame loi 

Fantasy 123 

Freedom  in  Dress 87 

May 9 

Masque  of  Pleasure  and  Virtue     .       .  433 

Nature 3 

Ode  to  Himself 93 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford    .       .      268 
Song:  "How  near  to  good  is  what  is 

fair" 87 

Song:  "  The  owl  is  abroad "       .       .      125 

Song  of  Echo 441 

Song :  "  See  the  chariot  at  hand  "     .        73 
Song:   "Spring all  the  graces  of  the 

age  " 434 

ToCelia         .  ....      445 

To  the  Countess  of  Rutland   .       .        .  269 
To  William  Sidney,  on  his  Birthday       269 

Keats,  John. 

Bom  in  London,  1796;  died  1820. 
Hyperion:  "As  heaven  and  earth  are 

fairer  " 143 

Hyperion  (Music) 128 

Hyperion  (Saturn,  as  he  walked  into 

the  midst) 518 

Hyperion  (Thea) 509 

On    First    Looking    into    Chapman's 

Homer 94 

The  Nightingale 34 

Kemble,  Mrs.  Frances  Anne. 

Bom  in  London,  about  1811. 

Faith 518 

Knowles,  Herbert. 
Bom  in  England. 
Written  in  the  Churchyard  of  Rich- 
mond, Yorkshire         .        .       .167 

Landor,  Walter  Savage. 

Bom  in  Warwickshire,  Eng.,  1775; 

died  1864. 

Inscription  on  a  Sea-Shell      .        .       .    40 

Larcom,  Lucy. 

Bom  in  Massachusetts. 

A  Loyal  Woman's  No  .        .        .       .248 

Lewis,  David. 
Lines  to  Alexander  Pope        .       .       .272 

Lindsay,  Lady  Anne. 

Bom  in  Scotland,  1750:  died  in 

London,  1825. 

Auld  Robin  Gray 383 

LocKHART,  John  Gibson. 

Bom  in  Glasgow,  Scotland,  1792 : 

died  1854. 

Bridal  of  Andalla 447 

Garci  Perez  de  Vargas         .       .       .     300 


»?% 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Loix^E,  Thomas. 
£om  in  England,  1656;  died 
Boealine 


72 


LoGAx,  John. 

Bom  in  Scotland,  1748;  died  1788. 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow  ....     456 

Lo»GFBLLOW,   Henry   Wabs- 

WORTH. 

Bom  in  Portland,  Me.,  1807. 

Axtassiz,  on  the  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  .  280 

life 149 

Santa  Filomena        ,       .       .       .  .^80 
The  Birds  of  Killingworth .        .       .11 

The  Children's  Hour       .        ,       .  .57 

^e  Cumberland 239 

The  Warden  of  the  jCinque  Ports  ,  224 

LoYELACE,  Richard. 
Bom  in  Kent,  Eng.,  1618 ;  died  1658. 

ToAlthea 445 

To  Lucasta -63 

The  Grasshopper  .       ,       .       .       .       16 

Lowell.  James  Russell. 

Bom  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  1819. 

CJommemoration  Ode       ....  258 

Hosea  Biglow's  Lament       .       .       ,476 

Mason  and  Slidell 234 

Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry    ,       .       .      483 
Sunthin'  in  a  Pastoral  Line    .       .       .240 

The  Courtin' 494 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud  ,       .       .237 

LoTjrEiiL,  Robert  T.  S, 

Bom  in  Boston,  Mass.,  1816. 

The  Belief  of  Lucknow      .       .       .311 

LuNT,  George. 
Bom  in  Newburyport,  Mass.,  1803. 
Beqoiem:      "Breathe,        trumpets, 

breathe " .       .       .       .       .       .257 


Macdonald,  George. 
Bom  in  Scotland. 
The  Earl  o*  Quarterdeck     . 


318 


Marvell,  Andrew. 
Bom  in  England,  1620 ;  died  1678. 

A  Drop  of  Dew 47 

Cromwell  and  King  Charles       .       .      219 

The  Garden 25 

The  Nymph  Mourning  her  Fawn       .      465 
Song  of  the  Emigrants  in  Bermuda      .    41 

Mellen,  Grenville. 
Bom  in  America,  1799;  died  1841. 

Bunker  Hill 226 

Entrance  of  Columbus  into  Barcelona  225 

MeSSINGER,  ROPERT  HiNCKLEY. 

Bom  in  Boston,  Mass.,  about  1807. 
Give  me  the  Old 57 


MioKLE,  William  Julius. 

Bom  in  Dumfries-shire,  Scotland, 

1734;  died  1788. 

There's  Nae  Luck  about  the  House  .     437 

MiLNES,  Richard  Monckton 
(Lord  Houghton). 

Bom  in  Yorkshire,  Eng.,  1809. 

Humility 145 

The  Palm  and  the  Pine       ...     289 

Milton,  John. 
Bom  in  London,  1608;  died  1674. 

Christmas  Hymn 187 

Comus 104 

Epitaph  on  Shakspeare  .       .        .       .268 
11 Penseroso  ......        18 

L'Allegio   .        , 4 

Lycidas 467 

Samson  Agonistes  ....  199 

Song:  "Sweet  Echo".        .        .        .      441 
On  His  being  Arrived  at  tiie  Age  of 

Twenty-three  .  .  .  .  .270 
Sonnet  on  his  Blindness  .  .  .  271 
Soimet  on  the  Late  Massacre  in  Pie- 

mont 195 

Sonnet  to  Sir  Henry  Vane       .        .        .271 

To  Be  no  More 169 

When  the  Assault  was  intended  to  the 

City 274 

MiTCHEL,  Walter. 

Bom  in  America. 

Tacking  Ship  oflE  Shore       ...       40 

Montgomery,  James. 

Born  in  Irvine,  Scotland,  1771  { 

died  1834. 

The  Sun-Dial 151 


Montrose  (James  Grahame), 

Marquis  of. 

Bom  in  Montrose,  Scotland,  1612; 

executed  1650. 

I'll  never  Love  Thee  more  ...       63 

Moore,  Thomas. 
Bom  in  Dublin,  1779 ;  died  1852. 

Araby's  Daughter 435 

Canadian  Boat-Song  ....  436 
Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls  .  435 
I^ake  of  tlie  Dismal  Swamp  .  .  335 
Love's  Young  Dream  ....  446 
Oft  in  tho  Stilly  Night .        .        .        ,      438 

Song  of  Fionnuala 126 

To  Campbell 276 

The  Caliph's  Encampment     .       .       .286 

More,  Henry. 

Bom  in  Grantham,  Eng.,  1614; 

died  1687. 

Euthanasia     ......      178 

Love  and  Hujnility  ,        .        ,        ,        .  176 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XXXI 


MORKIS,  J.  W. 

Bom  in  America. 
A  Collusion  between  a  Alegaiter  and  a 
Water-Snaik 491 

Morris,  William. 
Born  in  England. 
Song  from   Jason:    "I  know  a  little 
garden  close  " 442 

Morse,  Sidxey  H. 

Born  in  America. 

Sundered 82 

Motherwell,  William. 

Bom  in  Scotland,  1797 ;  died  1835. 

Jeanie  Morrison 438 

Palfrey,  Sara  H.   [E.  Foxton] 

Bom  in  America. 

Sir  Pavon  and  Saint  Pavon         .        .      417 

Patmore,  Coventry. 
Born  in  Essex,  Eng.,  1823. 

Honoria 59 

Sentences 76 

The  Queen 63 

The  Rose  of  the  World       ...  58 

The  Tribute 66 

Wisdom 146 

Percival,  James  Gates. 

Bom  in  Berlin,  Conn.,  1795;  c/ierfl856. 

The  Coral  Grove 39 

Percy's  Reliques. 

Heir  of  Linne 307 

King  John  and  the  Abbot  of  Canter- 
bury      352 

PoLLOK,  Robert. 

Bom  in  Renfrewshire,  Scotland, 

1799;  died  1827. 

The  Ocean 38 

Pope,  Alexander. 
Bom  in  London  1688 ;  died  1744. 

Man  of  Ross 272 

Portrait  of  Addison      ....      271 

London  Punch. 

Abraham  Lincoln 254 

A  Greeting  to  the  "  George  Griswold,"  227 
Fight  over  the  Dead  Body  of  Keitt   .     500 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter. 

Bom  in  BiuUeigh,  Eng.,  1552; 

beheaded  1618. 

Pilgrimage 160 

The  Soul's  Errand        ....      139 

Randall,  James  R, 
Maryland 230 

Roydon,  Matthew. 
On  Sir  Philip  Sidney    ....      268 


Sanborn,  F.  B. 
Born  in  America. 

Anathemata 59 

River  Song .     .  ....      442 

Ode  written  for  the  Consecration   of 
Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery       .        .      462 

Schiller  (see  Coleridge). 

Bom  in  Germany. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter. 

Born  in  Edinburgh,  1771  ;  died  1832. 

Allen-a-Dale 363 

Alice  Brand 334 

A  Weary  Lot  is  Thine     .        .        .        .448 

Battle  of  Haiiaw 301 

Beware 517 

Bonny  Dundee 449 

Brignall  Banks 449 

Bruce  and  the  Abbot  ....      415 

Child  Dyring .336 

Clan  Alpine 450 

Coronach 461 

County  Guy 442 

Detiance 218 

Dreams 122 

Fair  Annie 384 

Fair  Helen 411 

Fitz  Travers'  Song  ....  364 
Friar  of  Orders  Gray  ....  349 
Graeme  and  Bewick      ....      350 

Helvellvn 326 

Kinmont  Willie 301 

Lochinvar 356 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu       .       .       .450 

Rosabelle 414 

The  Dying  Bard 451 

The  Gay  Goss-Hawk       .        .        .       .361 

The  Mass 349 

Wild  Huntsman 330 

Shakspeare,  William. 

Bom  in  Stratford-on-Avon,  Eng., 

1564";  died  1616. 

Antony  and  the  Soothsayer         .        .      519 

Antony  over  the  Dead  Body  of  Caesar  .  205 

Ariel's  Song 440 

Art  and  Nature 132 

Battle  of  St.  Crispian's  Day  .  .  211 
Blow,  Blow,  thou  Winter  Wind  .  .  439 
Bolingbroke's  Entrance  into  London       285 

Cassius 203 

Clarence's  Dream 511 

Cleopatra 283 

Cleopatra's  Resolution  ....  521 
Come  Away,  Come  Away,  Death       .      439 

Common  Sense 76 

Compliment  to  Queen  Elizabeth        .      124 

Coriolanus 265 

Courage 520 

Crime 610 

Dawn 5 

Dover  Cliffs 8 

Each  and  All 520 

Fear  no  More  the  Heat  o'  the  Sun        ,  461 

Firmness 521 

Flowers 29 

Fop 286 

Foresight 92 

Full  Fathoms  Five  thy  Father  Lies   .      441 

Good  Omens 152 

Quidauce        ......     02JL 


XXXll 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Shakspeare,  William  (continued.) 

Hamlet's  Soliloquy 160 

Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark !        ...      441 

Henry  V 267 

Henry  V.'s  Audience  of  French  Ambas- 
sadors   210 

HesiUition       .  ....      512 

Hotspur 208 

Hotspur's  Quarrel  with  Henry  IV.     .     207 

Human  Life 621 

Inborn  Royalty 83 

I  See  Men's  Judgments  ....  511 

King  Lear 102 

King  Richard's  Soliloquy        .       ,        .  211 

Life  and  Death 161 

Macbeth  is  Ripe  for  Shaking  .  .  .  510 
Merciful  Heaven!         ....      511 

Moonlight 43 

Morning 6 

Mother's  Blessing 520 

Nestor  to  Hector 265 

Night 34 

Opportunity 517 

Oracle :  "  Mine  honesty  and  I  "  .  .521 
Oracle:  "  The  flighty  purpose"  .  .  520 
Oracle :  "  There  is  a  mystery  in  the,"  517 
Oracle :"  There  is  a  history  "  .  .517 
Oracle:  "  We  must  not  stint"  .  .  521 
Orpheus  with  his  Lute     .        .       .       .127 

Othello's  Defence 69 

Othello's  Last  Words  .  .  .  .476 
Out  and  Inward  Bound        ...       40 

Prayers 159 

Phoenix  and  Turtle-Dove    .        .        .123 

Queen  Mab 125 

Remorse 510 

Revolutions 152 

Romeo's  Presage 122 

Seven  Ages 151 

Sleep 160 

Sonnet:  "From  you  have  I  been  ab- 
sent"         133 

Sonnet:  "Full  many  a  glorious  morn- 
ing"  6 

Sonnet:  "  How  of t  when  thou  my  mu- 
sic"   73 

Sonnet :  "  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage,"  77 
Sonnet:  "Oh,  for  my  sake"  .  .  271 
Sonnet:  "  Oh,  how  much  more  doth  "  .  133 
Sonnet :  "  So  am  I  as  the  rich  "  .  .  78 
Sonnet :  '•  To  me,  fair  friend  "  .  .86 
Sonnet :  "  When  I  do  count  the  clock  "  86 
Speech  of  the  Dauphin  ....  207 
Take,  O  Take  those  Lips  away  .  .  444 
Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  Bred         .        .  441 

The  Black  Prince 266 

The  Gods  are  Just 511 

This  Army  Led   by  a  Delicate    and 

Tender  Prince 612 

To  Beguile  Time 510 

True  Ijove 62 

Ulysses  and  Achilles  ....  618 
Uiider  the  Greenwood  Tree  .  .  .440 
Viola  Disguised,  and  the  Duke  .  .  68 
Wlien  Daisies  Pied  and  Violets  Blue  ,  440 
When  we  in  our  Viciousness  grow  Hard,  510 

Shelley,  Percy  Bvsshe. 

Bom  in  Sussex,  Eng.,  1792;  died 
1822. 


The  Cloud  . 
To  a  Skylark 


46 


Shirley,  James. 
Bom  in  London,  about  1594:  died 
1666. 
Death's  Final  Conquest 


167 


Sidney,  Sir  Philip. 

Bom  in  Penhurst  Kent,  Eng.,  1554; 

died  1586. 

Psalm  XCIII 178 

Psalm  CXXXIX 178 

Psalm  XCVl 181 


SiMONIBES. 

Bom,  in  Julia,  Island  of  Ceos. 
B.C.  554. 
Epitaph 

Southwell,  Robert. 
Bom,  in  England,  1556;  executed 
1595. 
New  Prince,  New  Pomp     . 
The  Burning  Babe 


463 


191 
191 


Spenser,  Edmund. 
Bom  in  London,  1553;  died  1599. 

Beauty 84 

House  of  Busyrane 293 

Spenser  at  Court 267 

The  Bride .-67 

Trees       .......        30 

Una  and  the  Lion 85 

Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott. 

Bom  in  America. 

The  Night  Sea 448 


Sprague,  Charles. 
Bom  in  Boston,  Mass.,  1791. 

The  Indians 

The  Ocean 


Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence. 
Bom  in  America. 
John  Brown  of  Osawatomie  . 

Sterling,  John, 
Bom  in  the  Island  of  Bute,  1806: 
died  1844. 
Alfred  the  Harper        .... 
Daedalus 

Sternhold,  Thomas. 
Bom  in  England;  died  1549. 
Psalm  XVIII 


225 


22T 


298 
132 


182 


Strode,  William. 

Bom  in  England,  1600 ;  died  1644. 

Music 127 

Suckling,  Sir  John. 
Bom  in  Whitton,  Eng.,  1609;  died 


Bloods     . 
The  Bride 


1641. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


xxxm 


Swift,  Jonathan. 
Bom  in  Dublin,  1667 ;  died  1745. 

Jove  and  the  Souls 502 

Taylor,  Hekby. 
Bom  in  EngUxTid,  about  1800. 

Athulf  and  Ethilda 70 

Taylor,  Tom. 

Bom  in  England,  1817. 

Abraham  Lincoln .....     254 

Tennyson,  Alfred. 

Bom  in  Lincolnshire,  Eng.,  1810. 

Bugle  Song 441 

Christmas 192 

Crowning  of  Arthur         ....  296 
Death  of  the  Old  Year ....       24 

Eagle,  The 38 

Gate  of  Camelot 294 

Hero  to  Leander 448 

In  the  Fight 223 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vera        .       .        .  365 

Lady  Clare 381 

Landscape 9 

Locksley  Hall 134 

Maud 72 

Maud:  -'The  Garden  Song"      .        .444 

Memory 92 

Ude  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington      464 

CEnone ;  or,  the  Choice  of  Paris    .        .  375 
The  Deserted  House     ....      457 

The  Prayer 198 

Tithonus 165 

To  the  Critic 133 

Ulysses 101 

C.  S.  T. 
The  Poet 95 

Tersteegen,  Gerhard  (see  John 

Wesley.) 
Bom  in  Westphalia,  Germany,  1697. 

Thomson,  James. 

Bom  in  Roxburghshire,  Scotland, 

1700;  died  1748. 

Lost  in  the  Snow 23 

The  Nightingale 34 

Thoreau,  Henry  David. 

Bom  in  Concord,  Mass.,  1817 :  died 

1862. 

Haze 48 

Inspiration 94 

Mist 48 

Smoke 47 

Sympathy 78 

Thornbury,  G.  W. 

The  Sally  from  Coventry        .        .        .354 

Timrod,  Henry. 
Bom  1829;  died  in  South  Carolina, 
1867. 
Ode  sung  on  the  Occasion  of  Decorating 
the  Graves  of  the  Confederate 
Dead,  at  Magnolia  Cemetery, 
Charleston,  S.  C 258 


Tuckerman,  Frederic  Gordon. 
Bam  in  1821 ;  died  1873. 

Rhotruda 357 

Trowbridge,  J.  T. 
Bom,  in  New  York,  1827. 

At  Sea 48 

Vaughan,  Henry. 

Bom  in  Newton,  Eng.,  1621 ;  died 

1695. 

The  Retreat 173 

Very,  Jones. 

Bom  in  Salem.  Mass.,  about  1812. 

The  Barberry-Bush      ....       32 

The  Stiaugers 159 

Waller,  Edmund. 

Born  in  Colehill,  Eng.,  1605 ;  died 

1687. 

Apology  for  Having  Loved  Before     .       63 

Go,  Lovely  Rose 443 

On  a  Girdle 73 

My  Charmer 87 

S.  G.  W. 
The  Shield        .        .       .        .       .       .150 

The  Consolers 150 

Come  Morir 166 

Warton,  Thomas- 

Borti  in  Basingstoke,  Eng.,  1728; 

died  1687. 

The  Fairies 126 

Wasson,  David  A. 
Bom  in  America. 

Love  against  Love 83 

Royalty 198 

Watts,  Isaac. 
Bom  in  Southampton,  Eng.,  1674; 
died  1748. 
Hymn :  "  Lord,  when  I  quit  this  earthly 
stage" 185 

Webster,  Daniel. 

Bom   in   Salisbury,  N.H.,  1782; 

died  1852. 

Lines  Written  in  a  Lady's  Album      .     281 

Wesley,  John. 

Bom  in  Lincolnshire,  Eng.,  1703; 

died  1795. 

Translation    of    Tersteegen's    Divine 

Love 177 

Moravian  Hymn 178 

White,  Joseph  Blanco. 

Bom  in  Spain,  about  1773;  died  in 

England,  1840. 

Night  and  Death 44 

White,  Henry  Kirke. 

Bom  in  Nottingham,  Eng.,  1785; 

died  1806. 

To  the  Herb  Rosemary    ....    32 


XXXIV 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Whittieb,  John  Greenleaf. 

Bom  in  Haverhill,  Mass.,  1808. 

Amy  Wentworth 380 

At  Port  lioyal 231 

Ichjibod 227 

Skii)i>er  Ireson's  Ride      .       .        .        .304 

Telling  the  Bees 414 

3Iy  Playmate 79 

What  tlie  Birds  said     .       .        .       .      246 

Wilkinson,  James  John  Gabth, 
Bojm  in  London,  about  1812. 

The  Diamond 34 

Turner 509 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker, 

Bom  in  Portland,  Me.,  1807;  died 

1867. 

Lines  on  Leaving  Europe       .       ,       .51 

To  a  ChUd      ...        .       .        .57 


Wilson,  John, 

Bom  in  Scotland,  1785;  died  1854. 

Translation  of  Calidasa's  Woman        .    58 

WiLLSON,    FoBCEYTHE. 

Bom  in  Little  Genesee,  N.  Y.,  1837; 

died  in  Alfred  Centre,  N.  Y.,  1867. 

In  State 255 


Wither,  George. 

Bom  in  Bentworth,  Eng.,  1588;  died 

1667. 

The  Manly  Heart 446 

The  Muse 96 


Wolfe,  Charles. 

Bom  in  Ireland,  1791 ;  died  1823. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore       .       .       .466 


Wordsworth,  William. 

Bom  in  Cockermouth,  Eng.,  1770; 

died  1850. 

Cave  of  Staffa 42 

Christmas  Carol 191 

DaffodUa 33 

Departed 471 

Dion        . 475 

English  Channel 144 

FiJelitv' 326 

First  of  May 9 

Flowers  at  the  Cave  of  Staffa*   .       .       42 

Home 51 

Honor     .......      144 

Immortality 173 

Laodamia 162 

Liberty 33 

Lines  written  on  Tidings  of  the  Ap- 
proaching Death  of  Charles  James 

Fox .463 

Lucy 62 

Morning  in  the  Mountains  ...         8 


Wordsworth,  Wi^liaji  (continued). 
Ode  to  Duty      ......  149 

Osmunda  Regalis 32 

Outline 102 

Pass  of  Kirkstone        ....       28 

Hob  Roy's  Grave 274 

Scale  of  Minds 98 

Schill ,       ,  222 

September,  1819 34 

Skating 22 

Snow 22 

Sonnet :  "  Alas !  what  boots  the  long."  221 
Sonnet:  "It  is  not  to  be  thought  of"  223 
Steamboats,  Viaducts,  and  Railways  .  98 
The  Boy  of  Egremond         ...      339 

The  Boy  Poet 27 

The  Evening  Star  ....  44 
The  Happy  Warrior         .        .       .       .196 

The  Skeptic 152 

Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjuga- 
tion of  Switzerland  .       .       .       .221 

Tintem  Abbey 29 

To  Milton 274 

To  the  Skylark      .....       36 

To  Joanna 17 

True  Dignity 520 

Trust 621 

Yew-Trees 31 


WoTTON,  Sir  Henry, 

Bom  in  England,  1568 ;  died  1639. 

Elizabeth  of  Bohemia      ....    66 
The  Happy  Life    .        .        .        .        .146 

Young,  Edward. 

Bom  in  Hampshire,  Eng.,  1684; 
died  1765. 

Penitence 180 

Sleep 160 

Socrates     ....,,.    94 


Anonymous. 

Boatie  Rows 4.37 

Children  in  the  Wood  ....      337 
Epitaph  from  Simonldes         .        .        .  463 
George  Washington      .        .        .        .226 
Glenlogie   (Smith's  Scottish  Minstrel- 
sy)         360 

Inscription  on  a  Wall  in  St.  Edmund's 

Church  in  Lombard  Street,  London  162 
Inscription  in  the   Parish    Church   in 

Favei-sham  in  Agro  Cantiano       .      163 
Inscription  in  Melrose  Abbey        .        .  161 

Lykewake  Dirge 459 

Sir  Andrew  Barton  (old  ballads)  .  .  312 
Sir  Patrick  Spens  (old  ballads)  .  .  317 
Song  of  the  Tonga-Islanders  ,  .  .880 
That  Each  Thing  is  Hurt  of  Itself      .      154 

The  Cosmic  J^gg 505 

The  Drowned  Lovei-s  (Buchan)  .        .      321 

Thekla's  Song 447 

Waly,  Waly,  but  Love  be  Bonny  (tea- 
table  miscellany)     ....      383 
William  of  Cloudesl6       .        .       .        .306 


I 

NATUBE. 

LAND.  — SEA.  — SKY. 

"  ITature  the  vicar  of  the  Almightie  Lord."  — Chauceh, 


IsTATUEE. 


ARGUMENT   OF   HIS   BOOK. 

I  siis^G  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds, 
and  bowers. 

Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July- 
flowers  ; 

I  sing  of  May-poles,  hock-carts,  was- 
sails, wakes, 

Of  bride-grooms,  brides,  and  of  their 
bridal-cakes. 

I  write  of  youth,  of  love,  and  have 
access 

By  these,  to  sing  of  cleanly  wanton- 
ness; 

I  sing  of  dews,  of  rains,  and,  piece 
by  piece, 

Of  balm,  of  oil,  of  spice,  and  amber- 
grece. 

I  sing  of  times  trans-shifting;  and  I 
write 

How  roses  first  came  red,  and  lilies 
white. 

I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I 
sing 

The  court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  fairie 
king. 

I  write  of  Hell;   I  sing,  and  ever 
shall. 

Of  Heaven,  and  hope  to  have  it  after 
all. 

Heeeick. 


NATURE. 

O  HOW  canst  thou  renounce  the 
boundless  store 

Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her 
votary  yields ! 

The  warbling  woodland,  the  resound- 
ing shore, 

The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture 
of  fields ; 

All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning 
gilds, 


And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of 

even, 
All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering 

bosom  shields, 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of 

heaven, 

0  how  canst    thou    renounce,   and 

hope  to  be  forgiven ! 

JA3IES  BeATTIE. 

NIGHT. 

'Tis    night,   and    the  landscape    is 
lovely  no  more ; 

1  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn 

not  for  you ; 
For    morn    is    approaching,     your 

channs  to  restore, 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and 

glittering  with  dew : 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I 

mourn ; 
Kind  Nature  the  embryo  blossom  will 

save, 
But    when    shall    spring   visit    the 

mouldering  urn ! 
O  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night 

of  the  grave ! 

James  Beattie. 


NATURE. 

How  young  and  fresh  am  I  to-night, 
To  see't  kept  day  by  so  much  light, 
And  twelve  of  my  sons  stand  in  their 

Maker's  sight! 
Help,  wise  Prometheus,  something 

must  be  done, 
To  show  they  are  the  creatures  of 
the  sun. 

That  each  to  other 
Is  a  brother. 
And  Nature  here  no  stepdame,  but  a 
mother. 

3 


PAKNASSUS. 


Come  forth,  come  forth,  prove  all 

the  numbers  then. 
That  make  pei-fection  up,  and  may 

absolve  you  men. 
But  show  thy  winding  ways  and  arts, 
Thy  risings,  and  thy  timely  starts 
Of  stealing  fire  from  ladies'  eyes  and 

hearts. 
Those  softer  circles  are  the  young 

man's  heaven. 
And  there  more  orbs  and  planets  are 

than  seven. 

To  know  whose  motion 
Were  a  notion 
As  worthy  of  youth's  study,  as  devo- 
tion. 
Come  forth,  come  forth!  prove  all 

the  time  will  gain, 
For  Nature  bids  the  best,  and  never 

hade  in  vain. 

Ben  Jonson. 


L'ALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy. 
Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight 

born! 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 
'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks, 

and  sights  unholy, 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 
Wliere  brooding  Darkness  spreads 

his  jealous  wings, 
And  the  night-raven  sings; 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low- 
brow'd  rocks. 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 
In  dark    Cimmerian   desert   ever 

dwell. 
But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free. 
In  heav'n  y-clep'd  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth, 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore ; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes   the 

spring. 
Zephyr  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying; 
There  on  beds  of  violets  blue, 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Fill'd  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 
Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with 

thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 


Quips,  and    Cranks,    and    wanton 

Wiles, 
Nods,    and     Becks,   and    wreathed 

Smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  ye  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nj^mph,   sweet  Lib- 
erty; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due. 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free ; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow. 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweetbrier,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine : 
While  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  Darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  danies  before : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and 

horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through    the    high  wood    echoing 

shrill : 
Some  time  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate. 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light. 
The    clouds    in    thousand    liveries 

dight ; 
Wliile  the  ploughman  near  at  hand 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 
Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new 

pleasures 
Whilst     the     landscape    round    it 

measures ; 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide ; 


NATUEE. 


Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes ; 
Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes, 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met, 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
Which     the     neat-handed     Phijli^ 

dresses ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bow'r  she 

leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead. 
To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 
Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecs  sound 
To  many  a  youth,  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  checker'd  shade; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to 

play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday. 
Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail. 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 
How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat; 
She  was  pincht  and  pull'd,  she  said. 
And  he  by  friar's  lanthorn  led. 
Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  sweat, 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set. 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of 

morn. 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  thresh' d  the 

corn 
That    ten    day-laborers    could    not 

end; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubbar  fiend. 
And  stretch' d  out  all  the  chimney's 

length. 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
£re  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 
Thus  done  the   tales,   to  bed  they 

creep. 
By  whispering    winds    soon    lull'd 

asleep. 
Tower'd  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
WTiere  throngs  of  knights  and  barons 

bold 
in  weeds    of  peace   high  triumphs 

hold, 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright 

eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 


Of  wit,  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win   her  grace  whom  all  com- 
mend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear. 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 
With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry, 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on. 
Or  sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancy's 

child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 
In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out. 
With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cun- 
ning, 
The  melting  voice  through   mazes 

running. 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  hannony; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his 

head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heapt  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the 

ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half  regain'd  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

Milton. 


DAWN. 

Juliet.  —  Wilt  thou  be  gone?  It 
is  not  yet  near  day, 

It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the 
lark. 

That  pierced  the  fearful  hollow  of 
thine  ear : 

Nightly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegran- 
ate tree : 

Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightin- 
gale. 

Romeo.  —  It  was  the  lark,  the  her- 
ald of  the  morn, 

No  nightingale:  look,  love,  what 
envious  streaks 

Po  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yon- 
der east : 


6 


PARNASSUS. 


Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and 
jocund  day 

Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  moun- 
tain-tops ; 

I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and 
die. 

Shakspeare. 


MORNING. 

This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the 
air 

Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  it- 
self 

Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

This  guest  of  summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does 
approve, 

By  his  lov'd  mansionry,  that  the 
heaven's  breath 

Smells  wooingly  here:  no  jutty, 
frieze,  buttress, 

Nor  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
hath  made 

His  pendent  bed,  and  procreant  cra- 
dle: Where  they 

Most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  ob- 
serv'd  the  air 

Is  delicate. 

Shakspeare:  Macbeth. 


SONNET. 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have 
I  seen 

Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sove- 
reign eye, 

Kissing  with  golden  face  the  mead- 
ows green. 

Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly 
alchemy. 

Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 

With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face. 

And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  vis- 
age hide, 

Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this 
disgrace : 

Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did 
shine 

With  all  triumphant  splendor  on  my 
brow ; 

But  out !  alack !  he  was  but  one  hour 
mine, 

The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him 
from  me  now. 


Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit 

disdaineth ; 
Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when 

heaven's  sun  staineth. 

Shakspeare. 


THE  MOUNTAIN. 

.  .  .  Once  we  built  our  fortress 
where  you  see 

Yon  group  of  spruce-trees  sidewise 
on  the  line 

Where  the  horizon  to  the  eastward 
bounds,  — 

A  point  selected  by  sagacious  art, 

Where  all  at  once  we  viewed  the 
Vermont  hills. 

And  the  long  outlines  of  the  moun- 
tain-ridge. 

Ever-renewing,  changeful  every 
hour. 

Strange,  a  few  cubits  raised  above 
the  plain. 

And  a  few  tables  of  resistless  stone 

Spread  round  us,  with  that  rich  de- 
lightful air. 

Draping  high  altars  in  cerulean 
space. 

Could  thus  encliant  the  being  that 
we  are ! 

Those  altars,  where  the  airy  element 

Flows  o'er  in  new  perfection,  and  re- 
veals 

Its  constant  lapsing  (never  stillness 
all), 

As  a  motlier's  kiss,  touching  the 
bright  spruce-foliage; 

And  in  her  wise  distilment  the  soft 
rain. 

Trickling  below  the  sphagnum  that 
o'erlays 

The  plateau's  slope,  is  led  to  the  ra- 
vine. 

And  so  electrified  by  her  pure 
breath. 

As  if  in  truth  tlie  living  water  famed 

Recorded  in  John's  mytlius,  who 
first  daslied 

Ideal  baptism  on  Jordan's  shore. 

In  tliis  sweet  solitude,  the  Moun- 
tain's life. 

At  morn  and  eve,  at  rise  and  hush  of 
day, 

I  heard  the  wood-thrush  sing  in  the 
white  spruce. 

The  living  water,  the  enchanted  air 


NATURE. 


So  mingling  in  its  crystal  clearness 
there 

A  sweet,  peculiar  grace  from  both,  — 
this  song, 

Voice  of  the  lonely  mountain's  fa- 
vorite bird ! 

These  steeps  inviolate  by  human 
art. 

Centre  of  awe,  raised  over  all  that 
man 

Would  fain  enjoy,  and  consecrate  to 
one, 

Lord  of  the  desert  and  of  all  be- 
side. 

Consorting  with  the  cloud,  the  echo- 
ing storm, 

When  like  a  myriad  bowls  the  moun- 
tain wakes 

In  all  its  alleys  one  responsive  roar ; 

And  sheeted  down  the  precipice,  all 
light 

Tumble  the  momentary  cataracts,  — 

The  sudden  laughter  of  the  moun- 
tain-child. 


On  the  mountain-peak 
I  marked  the  sage  at  sunset,  where 

he  mused, 
Forth  looking  on  the  continent  of 

hills ; 
While  from  his  feet  the  five  long 

granite  spurs 
That  bind  the  centre  to  the  valley's 

side, 
(The  spokes  from  this  strange  mid- 
dle to  the  wheel) 
Stretched  in  the  fitful  torrent  of  the 

gale. 
Bleached  on  the  terraces  of  leaden 

cloud 
And  passages  of  light,  — Sierras  long 
In  archipelagoes  of  mountain  sky, 
Where  it  went  wandering  all    the 

livelong  year. 
He    spoke    not,    yet   methought    I 

heard  him  say, 
*'A11  day  and   ni^ht  the  same;  in 

sun  or  shade, 
In  summer  flames,  and  the  jagged, 

biting  knife 
That  hardy  winter  splits  upon  the 

cliff,  — 
From  earliest  time  the  same. 
One  mother  and  one  father  brought 

us  forth 
Thus  gazing  on  the  summits  of  the 

days, 


Nor  wearied  yet  when  generations 

fade. 
The  crystal  air,  the  hurrying  light, 

the  night. 
Always  the  day  that  never  seems  to 

end. 
Always  the  night  whose  day  does 

never  set ; 
One  harvest  and  one  reaper,  ne'er 

too  ripe. 
Sown  by  the  self-preserver,  free  from 

mould, 
And  builded  in  these  granaries  of 

heaven. 
This  ever-living  purity  of  air. 
In  these  perpetual  centres  of  repose 
Still  softly  rocked." 

CHAimrNG. 


THE  HILLSIDE  COT. 

And  here  the  hermit  sat,  and  told 

his  beads. 
And  stroked  his  flowing  locks,  red 

as  the  fire. 
Summed  up  his  tale  of  moon  and 

sun  and  star : 
"How  blest  are  we,"  he  deemed, 

*'  who  so  comprise 
The  essence  of  the  whole,  and  of 

ourselves. 
As  in  a  Venice  flask  of  lucent  shape, 
Ornate  of  gilt  Arabic,  and  inscribed 
With  Suras  from  Time's  Koran,  live 

and  pray. 
More  than  half  grateful  for  the  glit- 
tering prize. 
Human  existence!    If    I  note    my 

powers. 
So  poor  and  frail  a  toy,  the  insect's 

prey, 
Itched    by  a    berry,   festered   by  a 

plum. 
The    very    air    infecting    my    thin 

frame 
With  its  malarial  trick,  whom  every 

day 
Rushes  upon    and    hustles    to    the 

grave. 
Yet  raised  by  the  great  love  that 

broods  o'er  all 
Responsive,  to  a  height  beyond  all 

thought." 
He  ended  as  the  nightly  prayer  and 

fast 
Summoned  him  inward.    But  I  sat 

and  heard 


8 


PARNASSUS. 


The  night-hawks  rip  the  air  above 

my  head. 
Till  mi(lnight,  o'er  the  warm,  dry, 

dewless  rocks ; 
And  saw  the  blazing  dog-star  droop 

his  fire, 
And  the  low  comet,  trailing  to  the 

south, 
Bend  his  reverted  gaze,  and  leave 

us  free. 

Channlng. 


"  Here  let  us  live,  and  spend  away 
our  lives," 

Said  once  Fortunio,  "  while  below, 
absorbed, 

The  riotous  careering  race  of  man, 

Intent  on  gain    or  war,    pour   out 
their  news. 

Let  us  bring  in  a  chosen  company, 

Like  that  tlie  noblest  of  our  beaute- 
ous maids 

Might  lead,  —  unequalled  Margaret, 
herself 

The  summary  of  good  for  all  our  state ; 

Composedly  thoughtful,  genial,  yet 
reserved, 

Pure  as  the  wells  that  dot  the  ra- 
vine's bed. 

And  lofty  as  the  stars  that  pierce 
her  skies. 

Here  shall    she    reign  triumphant, 
and  preside 

With  gentle  prudence  o'er  the  camp's 
wild  mood, 

Summoning  forth  much  order  from 
what  else 

Surely  must  prove  unsound." 

Channing. 


MORNING  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

O  THEN  what  soul  was  his,  when,  on 

the  tops 
Of  the  liigh  mountains,  he  beheld 

the  sun 
Rise  up,  and  bathe    the  world    in 

light!     He  looked  — 
Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of 

earth 
And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  beneath 

liim  lay 
In    gladness    and    deep    joy.      The 

clouds  were  touched. 
And   in   their  silent   faces  did  he 

read 


Unutterable    love.      Sound    needed 

none, 
Nor  any  voice  of  joy ;  his  spirit  drank 
The  spectacle;  sensation,  soul,  and 

form 
All  melted  into  him ;  they  swallowed 

up 
His  animal  being ;  in  them  did  he  live. 
And  by  them  did  he  live ;  they  were 

his  life. 
In    such  access  of    mind,   in  such 

high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 
Thought  was  not;   in  enjoyment  it 

expired. 
No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  proffered 

no  request ; 
Rapt  into  still  communion  that  tran- 
scends 
The  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and 

praise. 
His  mind  was  a  thanksgiving  to  the 

power 
That  made  him ;  it  was  blessedness 

and  love. 

WORDSWOETH. 


DOVER  CLIFFS. 

Come  on,  sir;  here's   the  place:  — 

stand  still.  —  How  fearful 
And  dizzy  'tis,  to  cast  one's  eye  so 

low! 
The  crows  and  choughs,  that  wing 

the  midway  air. 
Show  scarce    so    gross    as    beetles: 

half  way  down 
Hangs  one   that  gathers  samphire; 

dreadful  trade ! 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than 

his  head : 
The  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the 

beach. 
Appear  like  mice;    and  yond'   tall 

anchoring  bark 
Dimini.sh'd  to  her  cock;  her  cock,  a 

buoy 
Almost    too    small    for    sight:    the 

murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles 

chafes. 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high:  —  I'll  look 

no  more ; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient 

sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 

Shakspeare. 


NATURE. 


9 


LANDSCAPE. 

Calm  and  still  liglit  on  yon  great 

plain 
That  sweeps  witli  all  its    autumn 

bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening 

towers, 
To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main. 
Texxysox. 


MAY. 

Whexce  is  it  that  the  air  so  sudden 
clears, 

And  all  things  in  a  moment  turn  so 
mild  ? 

Whose  breath  or  beams  have  got 
proud  Earth  with  child 

Of  all  the  treasure  that  great  Na- 
ture's worth. 

And  makes  her  every  minute  to  bring 
forth  ? 

How  comes  it  winter  is  so  quite 
forced  hence 

And  locked  up  under  ground  ?  That 
every  sense 

Hath  several  objects,  trees  have  got 
their  heads. 

The  fields  their  coats,  that  now  the 
shining  meads 

Do  boast  the  paunce,  the  lily,  and 
the  rose, 

And  every  flower  doth  laugh  as 
Zephyr  blows  ? 

That  seas  are  now  more  even  than 
the  land ; 

The  rivers  run  as  smoothed  by  his 
hand ; 

Only  their  heads  are  crisped  by  his 
stroke. 

How  plays  the  yearling,  with  his 
brow  scarce  broke, 

Now  in  the  open  grass,  and  frisking 
lambs 

Make  wanton  salts  about  their  dry- 
sucked  dams. 

Who  to  repair  their  bags  do  rob  the 
fields. 

How  is't  each  bough  a  several  mu- 
sic yields? 

The  lusty  throstle,  early  nightin- 
gale. 

Accord  in  tune  though  vary  in  their 
tale. 

The  chirping  swallow,  called  forth 
by  the  sun, 


And  crested  lark,  doth  his  division 
run. 

The  yellow  bees  the  air  with  mur- 
mur fill, 

The  finches  carol  and  the    turtles 
bill;  — 

^Vhose  power  is  this  ?    What  god  ? 

Behold  a  King, 

Whose  presence  maketh  this  perpet- 
ual spring, 

The  glories  of  which  spring  grow  in 
that  bower, 

And  are  the  marks  and  beauties  of 
his  power. 

Ben  Jonsox. 


FIRST  OF  MAY. 

While  from  the  purpling  east  de- 
parts 
The  star  that  led  the  dawn, 
Blithe  Flora  from  her    couch    up- 
starts, 
For  May  is  on  the  lawn. 
A  quickening  hope,  a  freshening  glee, 

Foreran  the  expected  power. 
Whose  first-drawn  breath,  from  bush 
and  tree. 
Shakes  off  that  pearly  shower. 

All    Nature    welcomes    her   whose 
sway 

Tempers  the  year's  extremes; 
Who  scattereth  lustres  o'er  noonday, 

Like  morning's  dewy  gleams; 
While  mellow  warble,  sprightly  trill. 

The  tremulous  heart  excite ; 
And  hums  the  balmy  air  to  still 

The  balance  of  delight. 

Time  was,  blest  Power !  when  youths 
and  maids 

At  peep  of  dawn  would  rise, 
And  wander  forth,  in  forest  glades 

Thy  birth  to  solemnize. 
Though  mute  the  song — to  grace 
the  rite 

Untouched  the  hawthorn  bough. 
Thy  spirit  triumphs  o'er  the  slight; 

Man  changes,  but  not  thou ! 

Thy  feathered  lieges  bill  and  wings 

In  love's  disport  employ. 
Wamied  by  thy  influence,  creeping 
things 

Awake  to  silent  joy : 


10 


PARNASSUS. 


Queen  art  thou  still  for  each  gay 
plant 
Where  the  slim  wild  deer  roves ; 
And  served  in  depths  where  fishes 
haunt 
Their  own  mysterious  groves. 


And  if,  on  this  thy  natal  morn, 

The  pole,  from  which  thy  name 
Hath  not  departed,  stands  forlorn 

Of  song  and  dance  and  game. 
Still  from  the  village-green  a  vow 

Aspires  to  thee  addrest, 
Wlierever  peace  is  on  the  brow, 

Or  love  within  the  breast. 

Yes !  where  love  nestles  thou  canst 
teach 

The  soul  to  love  the  more ; 
Hearts  also  shall  thy  lessons  reach 

That  never  loved  before. 
Stript  is  the  haughty  one  of  pride, 

The  bashful  freed  from  fear, 
Wliile  rising,  like  the  ocean-tide, 

lu  flows  the  joyous  year. 

Hush,  feeble  lyre!  weak  words,  re- 
fuse 
The  service  to  prolong ! 
To  yon  exulting  thrush  the  Muse 

Intrusts  the  imperfect  song; 
His  voice   shall   chant,  in  accents 
clear, 
Throughout  the  livelong  day. 
Till  the  first  silver  star  appear, 
The  sovereignty  of  May. 

Wordsworth. 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING. 

Get   up,  get   up,  for  shame;   the 

blooming  Morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god 
unshoni. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted   colors  through  the 

air; 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The    dew   bespangling    herb   and 
tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bow'd 

toward  the  east. 
Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  not 
drest, 


Nay !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed ; 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins 

said. 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns; 

'tis  sin. 
Nay,  profanation  to  keep  in. 
When  as  a  thousand  virgins  on  this 

day 
Spring,    sooner    than    the    lark,   to 

fetch  in  May. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and 

be  seen 
To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time 
fresh  and  green. 
And    sweet    as  Flora.     Take    no 

care 
For    jewels    for    your    gowne    or 

haire ; 
Feare  not,  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you; 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day 

has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls 
unwept. 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the 

light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of    the 

night; 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires    himself,    or    else    stands 
still 
Till  you  come  forth.    Wash,  dresse, 

be  briefe  in  praying; 
Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we 
go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come ;  and  com- 
ing, mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each 
street  a  park 
Made    green,    and    trimm'd  with 

trees ;  see  how 
Devotion    gives     each    house     a 

bough. 
Or  branch ;  each  porch,  each  doore, 

ere  this. 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is. 
Made    up    of    white-thorn    neatly 

interwove ; 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades 

of  love. 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done, 

by  staying; 
But,  my    Corinna^  come,    let's   go 
a-Maying. 

Herrick. 


NATUEE. 


11 


THE   BIRDS   OF  KILLING- 
WORTH. 

It  was  the  season  when  through  all 

the  land 
The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and 

building  sing 
Those  lovely  lyrics  written  by  His 

hand 
Whom  Saxon  Csedmon  calls  the 

Blithe-heart  King ; 
Wlien  on  the  boughs  the  pui-ple  buds 

expand, 
The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of 

the  Spring ; 
And    rivulets,   rejoicing,   rush    and 

leap, 
And  wave    their  fluttering    signals 

from  the  steep. 

The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping 
loud, 
Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards 
with  their  glee ; 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still 
were  proud 
Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should 
mentioned  be ; 

And  hungry  crows,  assembled  in  a 
crowd. 
Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  in- 
cessantly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry, 
and  said, 

"  Give  us,  O  Lord,  this  day  our  dai- 
ly bread!" 

Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  pas- 
sage sailed, 
Speaking  some  unknown  language, 
strange  and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and,  passing, 
hailed 
The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all 
their  fleet ; 

Or,    quarrelling    together,    laughed 
and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors  landed  in  the 
street 

Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outland- 
ish noise 

Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening 
girls  and  boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring   in 
Killingworth, 
In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred 
years  ago ; 


And  thrifty  fanners,  as  they  tilled 

the  earth, 
Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of 

the  crow. 
That    mingled  with    the    universal 

mirth, 
Cassandra  -  like,     prognosticating 

woe: 
They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed 

with  dreadful  words 
To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race 

of  birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened 

straightway 
To  set  a  price   upon  the   guilty 

heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of 

pay, 
Levied  black-mail  upon  the  gar- 
den-beds 
And  cornfields,  and  beheld  without 

dismay 
The    awful    scarecrow,    with   his 

fluttering  shreds,  — 
The   skeleton    that  waited  at  their 

feast, 
Whereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was 

increased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a  temple  paint- 
ed white. 
With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof 

of  red. 
The  Squire  came  forth,  —  august 

and  splendid  sight !  — 
Slowly  descending,  with  majestic 

tread. 
Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking 

left  nor  right, 
Down  the  long  street  he  walked, 

as  one  who  said, 
"A  town    that   boasts   inhabitants 

like  me 
Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society." 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man 
austere. 
The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was 
to  kill ; 
The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from 
year  to  year, 
And  read  with  fervor  Edwards  on 
the  Will : 
His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the 
deer 
In  summer  on  some  Adirondack 
hiU: 


12 


PARNASSUS. 


E'en  now,  while  walking  down  the 

rural  lane, 
He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his 

cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose    belfry 
crowned 
The  Hill  of  Science  with  its  vane 
of  brass, 
Came    the    Preceptor,  gazing   idly 
round. 
Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the 
green  grass, 
And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  pro- 
found 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class. 
Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 
As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from 
his  door, 
In    his    voluminous     neck-cloth, 
white  as  snow ; 
A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore : 
His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his 
step  was  slow ; 
There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  be- 
fore: 
He  seemed  the  incarnate  "Well, 
I  told  you  so ! " 
And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown, 
There  was  a  street  named  after  him 
in  town. 

These  came   together  in    the   new 
town-hall, 
With  sundry  farmers  from  the  re- 
gion round : 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and 
tall, 
His  air  impressive  and  his  reason- 
ing sound. 

Ill  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great 
and  small ; 
Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd 
they  found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 

Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes 
beneath  the  sun. 

When    they  had    ended,  from   his 
place  apart 
Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the 
wrong, 
And,  trembling  like  a  steed  before 
the  start. 
Looked  round  bewildered  on  the 
expectant  throng ; 


Then  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and 

took  heart 
To  speak  out  what  was  in  him, 

clear  and  strong, 
Alike  regardless  of    their  smile  or 

frown. 
And    quite    determined  not   to  be 


"  Plato,  anticipating  the  reviewers, 
From  his  republic  banished  with- 
out pity 

The  poets:  in  this  little  town  of 
yours. 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a 
committee. 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  trouba- 
dours. 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heav- 
enly city, 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music 
for  us  all 

In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for 
Saul. 

"  The  thrush,  that  carols  at  the  dawn 
of  day 
From  the  green  steeples  of    the 
piny  wood ; 

The  oriole  in  the  elm;   the  noisy 
jay, 
Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his 
food; 

The  bluebird  balanced  on  some  top- 
most spray. 
Flooding  with  melody  the  neigh- 
borhood ; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the 
throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the 
gift  of  song,  — 

**  You  slay  them  all !  and  wherefore  ? 

For  the  gain 
Of  a  scant  handful,  more  or  less, 

of  wheat. 
Or  rye,   or  barley,   or  some  other 

grain, 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  indus- 
trious feet 
Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after 

rain. 
Or  a  few  cherries,  that  are  not  so 

sweet 
As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited 

guests 
Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable 

breasts. 


NATURE. 


13 


"Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous 

beings  these  ? 
Do    you   ne'er   think   who    made 

them,  and  who  taught 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melo- 
dies 
Alone    are     the    interpreters    of 

thought? 
Whose  household  words  are  songs  in 

many  keys, 
Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man 

e'er  caught! 
Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops 

even 
Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to 

heaven ! 

*'  Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun 

peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of 

the  grove. 
How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 
Their  old  melodious  madrigals  of 

love ! 
And  when  you  think  of  this,  remem- 
ber, too, 
'Tis  always  morning  somewhere, 

and  above 
The    awakening    continents,    from 

shore  to  shore, 
Somewhere    the  birds    are    singing 

evermore. 

"  Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards 

without  birds ! 
Of    empty    nests    that    cling    to 

boughs  and  beams. 
As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered 

words 
Hang  empty  'mid  the  cobwebs  of 

his  dreams ! 
Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of 

herds 
Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when 

your  teams 
Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and 

no  more 
The    feathered    gleaners   follow  to 

your  door  ? 

"  What !  would  you  rather  see  the  in- 
cessant stir 
Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the 
hay, 
And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grass- 
hopper 
Their   melancholy    hurdy-gurdies 
play? 


Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than 

the  whirr 
Of    meadow-lark,    and    its    sweet 

roundelay. 
Or  twitter  of  little  fieldfares,  as  you 

take 
Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush 

and  brake? 

"You  call  them  thieves  and  pilla- 
gers ;  but  know 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of 

your  farms, 
Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the 

insidious  foe. 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a 

hundred  harms ; 
Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the 

crow. 
Renders  good  service  as  your  man- 

at-ai-ms, 
Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 
And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and 

snail. 

"  How  can  I  teach  your  children  gen- 
tleness, 
And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reve- 
rence 

For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or 
excess. 
Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipo- 
tence. 

Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness, 
is  no  less 
The     selfsame     light,      although 
averted  hence. 

When  by  your  laws,  your  actions, 
and  your  speech, 

You  contradict    the  very  things  I 
teach?" 

With  this  he  closed;  and  through 

the  audience  went 
A  muiTOur  like  the  rustle  of  dead 

leaves ; 
The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded, 

and  some  bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together  like 

their  sheaves : 
Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sen- 
timent 
Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks 

and  in  beeves. 
The  birds  were  doomed ;  and,  as  the 

record  shows, 
A  bounty  offered  for  the  head  of 

crows. 


14 


PARNASSUS. 


There  was  another  audience  out  of 

reach, 
Who  had  no  voice    nor  vote  in 

making  laws, 
But  in  tlie  papers    read    his    little 

speech, 
And  crowned  his  modest  temples 

with  applause : 
They  made  him  conscious,  each  one 

more  than  each. 
He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in 

their  cause : 
Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won 

from  thee, 
O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy ! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began : 
O'er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er 
woodland  crests. 
The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 
Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood- 
'  stains  on  their  breasts. 
Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight 
of  man, 
While  the  young  died  of  famine  in 
their  nests : 
A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not 

words. 
The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  birds ! 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds 
were  dead ; 
The  days  were  like  hot  coals ;  the 
very  ground 

Was  burned  to  ashes:    in  the  or- 
chards fed 
Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 

The  cultivated    fields  and   garden- 
beds 
Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled, 
and  found 

No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till 
they  had  made 

The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or 
shade. 

Devoured   by  worms,    like    Herod, 
was  the  town. 
Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruth- 
lessly 
Slaughtered  the  Innocents.      From 
the  trees  spun  down 
The  canker-worms  upon  the  pass- 
ers-by, — 
Upon  each  woman's  bonnet,  shawl, 
and  gown, 
Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a 
little  cry : 


They  were  the  terror  of  each  favor- 
ite walk, 

The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village- 
talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient ;  but  a 
few 
Confessed  their  error,  and  would 
not  complain ; 

For,  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can 
do. 
When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then    they    repealed    the    law,   al- 
though they  knew 
It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life 
again : 

As  school-boys,  finding  their  mis- 
take too  late. 

Draw  a  wet  sponge  across  the  accus- 
ing slate. 

That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Au- 
tumn came 
Without  the  light  of  his  majestic 
look, 

The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues 
of  flame. 
The  illumined  pages  of  his  Dooms- 
Day  Book. 

A  few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson 
with  their  shame, 
And  drowned  themselves  despair- 
ing in  the  brook, 

Wliile  the  wild  wind  went  moaning 
everywhere, 

Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the 
air. 

But  the  next  Spring,  a  stranger  sight 

was  seen, 
A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was 

sung, 
As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have 

been. 
If  some  dumb  animal  had  found 

a  tongue : 
A  wagon  overarched  with  evergreen. 
Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker 

cages  hung, 
All  full  of  singing-birds,  came  down 

the  street, 
Filling  the  air  with  music,  wild  and 

sweet. 

From  all  the  country  round  these 
birds  were  brought 
By  order  of  the  town,  with  anx- 
ious quest, 


NATURE. 


15 


And,    loosened   from   their  wicker 
prison,  sought 
In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they 
loved  best, 

Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many- 
thought 
Were  satires  to  the  authorities  ad- 
dressed ; 

While    others,    listening    in    green 
lanes,  averred 

Such  lovely  music  never  had  been 
heard. 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled 
they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed 
to  know 
It  was  the   fair  Almira's  wedding- 
day; 
And  everywhere,  around,   above, 
below, 
When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride 
away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous 
overflow, 
And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new 

earth 
Amid  the   sunny  farms  of  Killing- 
worth. 

Longfellow. 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

Sweet  country  life,   to   such    un- 
known. 
Whose   lives  are    others,  not  their 

own; 
But,  serving  courts  and  cities,  be 
Less  happy,  less  enjoying  thee. 
Thou    never  plough' st  the  ocean's 

foame 
To    seek  and  bring   rough   pepper 

home ; 
Nor  to  the  Eastern  Ind  dost  rove 
To  bring  from  thence  the  scorched 

clove ; 
Nor,  with  the  loss  of  thy  loved  rest, 
Bring' St  home  the   ingot  from  the 

west : 
No,  thy  ambitious  masterpiece    • 
Elies  no  thought  higher  than  a  fleece ; 
Or  to  pay  thy  hinds,  and  cleere 
All  scores,  and  so  to  end  the  yeare : 
But  walk'st  about  thine  own  dear 

bounds. 
Not  envying  others'  larger  grounds ; 


For  well  thou  know'st,  'tis  not  the 

extent 
Of  land  makes  life,  but  sweet  con- 
tent. 
When  now  the  cock,  the  ploughman's 

home. 
Calls  forth  the  lily-wristed  morne ; 
Then  to  thy  cornfields  thou  dost  go. 
Which,  though  well  soyl'd,  yet  thou 

dost  know. 
That  the  best  compost  for  the  lands 
Is  the  wise  master's  feet  and  hands: 
There  at  the  plough  thou  findst  thy 

teame. 
With  a  hind  whistling  there  to  them ; 
And  cheer' st  them  up,  by  singing 

how 
The  kingdom's  portion  is  the  plough ; 
This  done,  then    to    the  enameled 

meads 
Thou  go'st,  and  as  thy  foot   there 

treads, 
Thou  seest  a  present  godlike  power 
Imprinted  in  each  herbe  and  flower ; 
And  smell' st  the  breath  of  great-eyed 

kine. 
Sweet  as  the  blossoms  of  the  vine : 
Here  thou  behold' st  thy  large  sleek 

neat 
Unto  the  dew-laps  up  in  meat ; 
And  as    thou   look'st,  the  wanton 

steere. 
The  heifer,  cow,  and  oxe  draw  neare, 
To  make  a  pleasing  pastime  there : 
These  seen,  thou  go'st  to  view  thy 

flocks 
Of  sheep,  safe  from  the  wolf  and  fox, 
And  find'st  their  bellies  there  as  full 
Of  short  sweet  grass,  as  backs  with 

wool; 
And  leav'st  them,  as  they  feed  and 

fill, 
A  shepherd  piping  on  a  hill. 
For    sports,    for    pageantrie,     and 

playes. 
Thou  hast  thy  eves  and  holydayes ; 
On  which  the  young  men  and  maids 

meet 
To  exercise  their  dancing  feet. 
Tripping  the  comely  country  round. 
With  daffodils  and  daisies  crowned. 
Thy  wakes,  thy  quintels,  here  thou 

hast. 
Thy  May-poles,  too,  with  garlands 

grac't. 
Thy  morris-dance,  thy  Whitsun  ale. 
Thy    shearing-feast,     which    never 
faile, 


16 


PAKNASSUS. 


Thy    harvest    home,    thy    wassail 

bowle, 
That's  tost  up  after  fox  i'  th'  hole, 
Thy     mummeries,     thy    twelf-tide 

kings 
And   queenes,  thy  Christmas  revel- 
lings, 
Thy  nut-browne  mirth,  thy   russet 

wit, 
And  no  man  pays  too  deare  for  it : 
To  these   thou  hast  thy  times    to 

goe. 
And  trace  the  hare  i'  th'  treacherous 

snow; 
Thy  witty  wiles  to  draw  and  get 
The  larke  into  the  trammel  net ; 
Thou  hast   thy  cockrood    and    thy 

glade 
To  take  the  precious  pheasant  made ; 
Thy  lime-twigs,  snares,  and  pit-falls 

then 
To  catch   the  pilfering   birds,   not 

men. 
O  happy  life  I  if  that  their  good 
The  husbandmen  but  understood ; 
Who    all    the    day    themselves    do 

please. 
And  younglings  with  such  sports  as 

these ; 
And,  lying  down,  have   nought  to 

affright 
Sweet  sleep,  that  makes  more  short 

the  night. 

Hebbick. 


POX  AKD  COCK. 

Now  wol  I  turn  unto  my  tale  agen. 
The  silly  widow  and  her  doughtren 

two, 
Herden  these  hennds  cry  and  maken 

wo. 
And  out  of  dor^s  sterten  they  anon, 
And  saw  the  fox  toward  the  wode  is 

gon. 
And  bare  upon  his  back  the  cock 

away : 
They  criden  out!  "Harow  and  wala 

wa! 
A  ha  I  the  fox  I "  and  after  him  they 

ran. 
And  eke  with  staves  many  another 

man; 
Ran  Colle  our  dog,  and  Talbot,  and 

Gerlond ; 
And  Malkin,  with  her  distaf  in  her 

hond; 


Ran  cow  and  calf,  and  eke  the  very 

hogges 
So  feared  were  for  barking  of   the 

dogges. 
And  shouting  of  the  men  and  women 

eke. 
They  ronnen  so,  them  thought  hir 

hertes  breke. 
They    yelleden    as    fendes    don   in 

Helle : 
The  dokes  crieden  as  men  wold  hem 

quelle : 
The  gees  for  fere  flewen  over  the 

trees. 
Out  of  the  hive  came  the  swarme  of 

bees, 
So  hideous  was  the  noise,  a  bene- 

dicite ! 
Certes    he    Jakke    Straw,    and    his 

meinie, 
Ne    maden   never  shoutes    half   so 

shrill. 
When  that  they  wolden  any  Fleming 

kill, 
As  thilke  day  was  made  upon  the  fox. 
Of    brass    they  broughten    beeme's 

and  of  box. 
Of  horn   and    bone,  in  which  they 

blew  and  pouped, 
And  therwithal  they  shrieked   and 

they  houped ; 
It    seemed,    as    the  Heven  shulde 

falle. 
Chaucer:  Nuns^  PriesVs  Tale. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

TO  MY  NOBLE  FBIEND,  MB.  CHABLES 
COTTON. 

ODE. 

O  THOU  that  swing' St  upon  the  wav- 
ing ear 
Of  some  well-filled  oaten  beard, 
Drunk  every  night  with  a  delicious 
tear 
Dropt   thee  from  heaven,  where 
now  thou  art  reared. 

Tli€  joys  of  earth  and  air  are  thine 
entire 
That  with  thy  feet  and  wings  dost 
hop  and  fly, 
And    when  thy  poppy  works    thou 
dost  retire. 
To  thy  carved  acorn-bed  to  lie. 


NATURE. 


17 


Up  with  the  day,  the  Sun  thou  wel- 
com'st  then, 
Sport' St  in  the  gilt  plaits  of  his 
beams, 
And  all    these   merry  days    mak'st 
merry  men 
Thyself  and  melancholy  streams. 

But  ah !  the  sickle !  golden  ears  are 
cropt ; 
Ceres  and  Bacchus  bid  good-night ; 
Sharp  frosty  fingers  all  your  flowers 
have  topt, 
And  what   scythes  spared  winds 
shave  off  quite. 

Poor  verdant  fool!  and  now  green 
ice,  thy  joys 
Large  and  as  lasting  as  thy  perch 
of  grass 
Bid  us  lay  in  'gainst  winter  rain,  and 
poise 
Their  floods  with  an  o'erflowing 
glass. 

Thou  best  of  men  and  friends,  we 
will  create 
A  genuine  summer  in  each  other's 
breast ; 
And  spite  of    this    cold    time    and 
frozen  fate, 
Thaw  us  a  warm  seat  to  our  rest. 

Our  sacred  hearths  shall  burn  eter- 
nally 
As  vestal  flames ;  the  North-wind, 
he 
Shall  strike  his  frost-stretched  wings, 
dissolve,  and  fly 
This  ^tna  in  epitome. 

Dropping     December     shall     come 
weeping  in. 
Bewail  th'  usurping  of  his  reign ; 
But  when  in  showers  of  old  Greek* 
we  begin, 
Shall    cry,    he    hath    his    crown 
again ! 

Night    as    clear    Hesper   shall    our 
tapers  whip 
From  the  light  casements  where 
we  play, 
And  the  dark  hag  from  her  black 
mantle  strip, 
And  stick  there  everlasting  day. 

♦Greek  wine. 


Thus  richer  than  un tempted  kings 
are  we, 
That     asking    nothing,     nothing 
need ; 
Though  lord  of  all  what  seas   em- 
brace, yet  he 
That  wants  himself  is  poor  indeed. 
Richard  Lovelace. 


TO  JOANNA. 

As  it  befell, 
One  summer  morning  we  had  walked 

abroad 
At  break  of  day,  Joanna  and  myself. 
'Twas  that  delightful  season  when 

the  broom. 
Full-flowered,  and  visible   on  every 

steep. 
Along  the  copses  runs  in  veins  of 

gold. 
Our  pathway  led  us  on  to  Rotha's 

banks ; 
And  when  we  came  in  front  of  that 

tall  rock 
That  eastward  looks,  I  there  stopped 

short,  and  stood 
Tracing  the  lofty  barrier  with  my  eye 
From  base  to  summit ;  such  delight 

I  found 
To  note  in  shrub  and  tree,  in  stone 

and  flower, 
That  intermixture  of  delicious  hues. 
In  one    impression,   by  connecting 

force 
Of  their  own  beauty,  imaged  in  the 

heart. 
When    I    had    gazed    perhaps    two 

minutes'  space,  ^ 

Joanna,  looking  in  my  eyes,  beheld 
That     ravishment     of     mine,     and 

laughed  aloud. 
The  Rock,  like  something  starting 

from  a  sleep. 
Took    up    the    Lady's    voice,    and 

laughed  again ; 
That     ancient    Woman    seated    on 

Helm-crag 
Was  ready  with  her  cavern;  Ham- 
mar-scar, 
And  the  tall   Steep  of  Silver-how, 

sent  forth 
A    noise     of     laughter;     southern 

Lough rigg  heard. 
And     Fairfield    answered    with    a 

mountain  tone ; 
Helvellyn  far  into  the  clear  blue  sky 


18 


PARNASSUS. 


Carried  the  Lady's  voice,  — old  Skid- 
daw  blew 

His  speaking-trumpet;  back  out  of 
the  clouds 

Of  Glaramara  southward  came  the 
voice ; 

And  Kirkstone  tossed  it  from  his 
misty  head. 

"Now    whether"    (said    I    to    our 
cordial  friend, 

Who  in  the  hey-day  of  Astonishment 

Smiled  in  my  face),  "  this  were  in 
simple  truth 

A  work  accomplished  by  the  brother- 
hood 

Of  ancient  mountains,   or  my  ear 
was  touched 

With  dreams  and  visionary  impulses 

To  me  alone  imparted,  sure  I  am 

That  there  was  a  loud  uproar  in  the 
hills." 

And  while  we  both  were  listening, 
to  my  side 

The    fair  Joanna  drew,   as   if    she 
wished 

To  shelter  from  some  object  of  her 
fear. 

And  hence  long  afterwards,  when 
eigliteen  moons 

Were  wasted,  as  I  chanced  to  walk 
alone 

Beneath  this  rock,  at  sunrise,  on  a 
calm 

And  silent  morning,  I  sat  down,  and 
there, 

In  memory  of  affections  old  and  true, 

I  chiselled  out  in  those  rude  charac- 
ters 

Joanna's  name  deep   in  the   living 

^         stone ; 

And  I  and  all  who  dwell   by  my 
fireside 

Have  cj^Iled  the  lovely  rock,  "  Joan- 
na's Rock." 

Wordsworth. 


IL  PEXSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys. 
The  brood  of  Folly  without  father 
bred. 
How  little  you  bestead, 
Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your 
toys ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 
And    fancies    fond    with    gaudy 
shai^es  possess, 


As  thick  and  numberless 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the 
sunbeams. 
Or  llkest  hovering  dreams 
The    fickle     pensioners    of    Mor- 
pheus' train. 
But  hail   thou  Goddess,   sage    and 

holy, 
Hail  divinest  Melancholy, 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  ofhuman  sight, 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's 

hue; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  be- 
seem, 
Or  that  Starr' d  Ethiop  queen   that 

strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  Sea-Nymphs,  and  their  powers 

offended : 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended ; 
Thee    bright-hair'd  Yesta,   long    of 

yore, 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore; 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign, 
Such  mixture  w^as  not  held  a  stain). 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
\Yliile  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 
Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  cyprus-lawn. 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state. 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 
And    looks    commercing    with    the 

skies. 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes : 
There  held  in  holy  passion  still. 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast: 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and 

Quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  Gods  doth 

diet. 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing: 
And  add  to  these  retiied  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleas- 
ure ; 
But  first,  and  chief  est,  with    thee 
bring. 


NATURE. 


19 


Him  that  yon  soars  on  gojden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery- wheeled  throne, 
The  Cherub  Contemplation ; 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 
'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song, 
In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her    dragon 

yoke, 
Gently  o'erth'  accustomed  oak; 
Sweet  bird,  that  shuun'st  the  noise 

of  folly, 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 
Thee,    chauntress,    oft    the    woods 

among 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 
And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heav'n's  wide  pathless 

way; 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 
Over  some  wide-water' d  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar ; 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the 

room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom ; 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm, 
To  bless    the    doors    from    nightly 

harm : 
Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tow'r, 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 
With  thrice-great    Hermes,   or  un- 

sphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds,  or  what  vast  regions 

.      hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  for- 
sook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook : 
And    of    those    Demons    that    are 

found 
Jn  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by. 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 


Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine, 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskin' d  stage. 
But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musseus  from  his  bower, 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did 

seek. 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold. 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace'  to  wife. 
That  own'd  the  virtuous  ring  and 

glass. 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride ; 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  be- 
side. 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 
Of  turneys  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the 

ear. 
Thus  Night  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale 

career. 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  trick' d  and  frounc'd  as  she  was 

wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt. 
But  kerchiefed  in  a  comely  cloud, 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 
Or  usher'd  with  a  shower  still, 
Wlien  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves. 
With  minute   drops   from    off   the 

eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His     flaring  beams,    me,    Goddess, 

bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 
And   shadows    brown    that   Sylvan 

loves 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 
Wliere  the  rude  axe  with   heaved 

stroke 
Was  never  heard  the    Nymphs    to 

daunt. 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallow' d 

haunt. 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 
Wliere  no  profaner  eye  may  look. 
Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 
Wliile  the  bee  with  honied  thigh. 
That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 
And  the  waters  murmuring 
With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 


20 


PARNASSUS. 


Entice  the  dewy-feather' d  Sleep; 
And  let  some    strange   mysterious 

dream 
"Wave  at  his  wings  in  aeiy  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  display'd, 
Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid. 
And  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath. 
Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 
Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 
But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale, 
And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 
With  antique  pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light: 
There  let  the  pealing  orgau  blow. 
To  the  full  voic'd  quire  below. 
In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine 

ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies. 
And  bring  all  heav'n  before  mine 

eyes. 
And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage. 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Wliere  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heav'n  doth  show, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 
These  pleasures  Melancholy  give. 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 
Milton. 


FROM  THE  BOTHIE  OP  TOBER 
NA  VUOLICH. 

There  is  a  stream,  I  name  not  its 

name,  les't  inquisitive  tourist 
Hunt  it,  and  make  it  a  Hon,  and  get 

it  at  last  into  guide-books, 
Springing  far  off  from  a  loch  unex- 

l)lor(Hl   in  the  folds  of  great 

mountains, 
Falling    two  miles    through  rowan 

and  stunted  alder,  enveloped 
Then  for  foi^r  more  in  a  forest   of 

pine,  where  broad  and  ample 
Spreads,  to  convey  it,  the  glen  with 

heathery  slopes  on  both  sides: 
Broad    and    fair   the    stream,   with 

occasional  falls  and  narrows; 
But,  where  the  glen   of  its  course 

ai)proache»    the    vale    of   the 

river, 


Met  and  blocked  by  a  huge  interpos- 
ing mass  of  granite. 
Scarce  by  a  channel  deep-cut,  raging 

up  and  raging  onward, 
Forces  its  flood  through  a  passage 

so  narrow  a  lady  would  step 

it. 
There,     across     the     great     rocky 

wharves,     a     wooden    bridge 

goes. 
Carrying  a  path  to  the  forest;  be- 
low, three  hundred  yards,  say 
Lower   in    level    some   twenty-five 

feet,  through  flats  of  shingle, 
Stepping-stones    and    a    cart-track 

cross  in  the  open  valley. 
But  in  the  interval  liere  the  boiling, 

pent-up  water 
Frees  itself  by  a  final  descent,  at- 
taining a  basin, 
Ten  feet  wide  and  eighteen  long, 

with  whiteness  and  fury 
Occupied  partly,  but  mostly  pellucid, 

pure,  a  mirror ; 
Beautiful    there   for   color   derived 

from  green  rocks  under ; 
Beautiful,  most  of  all,  where  beads 

of  foam  uprising 
Mingle  tlieir  clouds  of  white  witli  the 

delicate  liue  of  the  stillness. 
Cliff  over  chft"  for  its  sides,  witli  rowan 

and  pendent  birch-boughs, 
Here  it  lies,  unthought  of  above  at 

the  bridge  and  pathway, 
Still  more  enclosed  from  below  by 

wood  and  rocky  projection. 
You  are    shut  in,   left  alone  with 

yourself    and    perfection    of 

water. 
Hid    on    all  sides,   left  alone  with 

yourself  and  the  goddess   of 

bathing. 
Here,  the  pride  of  the  plunger,  you 

stride  the  fall  and  clear  it; 
Here,  the  delight  of  tlie  bather,  you 

roll  in  beaded  sparklings. 
Here  into  pure   green  depth    drop 

down  from  lofty  ledges. 
Hither,   a  month    agone,  they  had 

come,     and     discovered     it; 

hither 
(Long  a  design,  but  long  unaccounta- 
bly left  unaccomplished). 
Leaving  the  well-known  bridge  and 

pathway  above  to  the  foi-est, 
Turning  below  from  the  track  of 

the    carts    over     stone     and 

shingle, 


NATURE. 


21 


Piercing  a  wood,  and  skirting  a 
narrow  and  natural  causeway 

Under  the  rocky  wall  that  hedges 
the  bed  of  the  streamlet, 

Rounded  a  craggy  point,  and  saw  on 
a  sudden  before  them 

Slabs  of  rock,  and  a  tiny  beach,  and 
perfection  of  water, 

Picture-like  beauty,  seclusion  sub- 
lime, and  the  goddess  of  bath- 
ing. 

There  they  bathed,  of  course,  and 
Arthur,  the  glory  of  headers, 

Leapt  from  the  ledges  with  Hope, 
he  twenty  feet,  he  thirty; 

There,  overbold,  great  Hobbes  from 
a  ten-foot  height  descended. 

Prone,  as  a  quadruped,  prone  with 
hands  and  feet  protending ; 

There  in  the  sparkling  champagne, 
ecstatic,  they  shrieked  and 
shouted. 

"Hobbes's  gutter,"  the  Piper  en- 
titles the  spot,  profanely, 

Hope  *'tlie  Glory"  would  have, 
after  Arthur,  the  glory  of 
headers : 

But,  for  before  they  departed,  in  shy 
and  fugitive  reflex 

Here  in  the  eddies  and  there  did 
the  splendor  of  Jupiter  glim- 
mer, 

Adam  adjudged  it  the  name  of 
Hesperus,  star  of  the  even- 
ing. 

Hither,  to  Hesperus,  now,  the  star 
of  evening  above  them. 

Come  in  their  lonelier  walk  the  pupils 
twain  and  Tutor ; 

Turned  from  the  track  of  the  carts, 
and  passing  the  stone  and 
shingle, 

■piercing  the  wood,  and  skirting  the 
stream  by  the  natural  cause- 
way. 

Rounded  the  craggy  point,  and  now 
at  their  ease  looked  up ;  and 

Lo,  on  the  rocky  ledge,  regardant, 
the  Glory  of  headers, 

Lo,  on  the  beach,  expecting  the 
plunge,  not  cigarless,  the 
Piper.  — 

And  they  looked,  and  wondered,  in- 
credulous, looking  yet  once 
more. 

Yes,  it  was  he,  on  the  ledge,  bare- 
limbed,  an  Apollo,  down-gaz- 
ing, 


Eying  one  moment  the  beauty,  the 
life,  ere  he  flung  himself  in  it, 

Eying  through  eddying  green  waters 
the  green  tinting  floor  under- 
neath them. 

Eying  the  bead  on  the  surface,  the 
bead,  like  a  cloud,  rising  to  it. 

Drinking  in,  deep  in  his  soul,  the 
beautiful  hue  and  the  clear- 
ness, 

Ai'thur,  the  shapely,  the  brave,  the 
unboasting,  the  glory  of 
headers ; 

Yes,  and  with  fragrant  weed,  by  his 
knapsack,  spectator  and  critic. 

Seated  on  slab  by  the  margin,  the 
Piper,  the  Cloud-compeller. 

Clough. 


SWIMMING. 

How  many  a  time  have  I 

Cloven,  with  arm  still  lustier,  breast 
more  daring. 

The  wave  all    roughened;    with    a 
swimmer's  stroke 

Flinging  the  billows  back  from  my 
drenched  hair, 

And  laughing  from  my  lip  the  auda- 
cious brine. 

Which  kissed  it  like  a  wine-cup,  ris- 
ing o'er 

The  waves  as  they  arose,  and  prouder 
still 

The   loftier  they  uplifted  me;  and 
oft. 

In  wantonness   of    spirit,   plunging 
down 

Into  their  green  and  glassy  gulfs,  and 
making 

My  way  to  shells  and  seaweed,  all 
imseen 

By  those  above,  till  they  waxed  fear- 
ful; then 

Returning  with  my  grasp  full  of  such 
tokens 

As  showed  that  I  had  searched  the 
deep;  exulting. 

With  a  far-dashing  stroke,  and  draw- 
ing deep 

The  long-suspended  breath,  again  I 
spurned 

The  foam  which  broke  around  me, 
and  pursued 

My  track  like  a  sea-bird. — I  was  a 
boy  then. 

Bybon. 


22 


PARNASSUS. 


SKATING. 

—  In  the  frosty  season,  when  the 

sun 
"Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a 

mile, 
The  cottage  windows  through  the 

twilight  blazed, 
I  heeded  not  the  summons:  happy 

time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us ;  for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture.     Clear  and 

loud 
The    village    clock    tolled    six.       I 

wheel' d  about, 
Proud  and  exulting,  like  an  untired 

horse 
That  cares  not  for  its  home.     All 

shod  with  steel. 
We  hiss'd  along  the  polish'd  ice  in 

games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland   pleasures,  —  the  re- 
sounding horn, 
The  pack  loud-bellowing,   and   the 

hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness    and  the 

cold  we  flew. 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle :  with  the 

din 
Meanwhile  the  precipices  rang  aloud ; 
The    leafless    trees    and    every    icy 

crag 
Tingled  like  iron ;  while  the  distant 

hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed,  while 

the  stars. 
Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and 

in  the  west 
The   orange    sky  of    evening   died 

away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumult- 
uous throng. 
To  cut  across  tlie  image  of  a  star 
That  gleam'd    upon    the    ice;    and 

oftentimes, 
Wlien  we  had  given  our  bodies  to 

the  wind. 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either 

side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  dark- 
ness, spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at 
once 


Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my 
heels, 

Stopp'd  short;  yet  still  the  solitary 
cliffs 

Wheel' d  by  me,  even  as  if  the  earth 
had  roll'd 

With  visible  motion  her  diurnal 
round. 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  sol- 
emn train, 

Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and 
watch' d 

Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea. 

WOKDSWOKTH. 


WINTER.— A  DIRGE. 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rahi  does  blaw ; 
Or  the  stormy  north  sends  driving 
forth 

The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw : 
While    tumbling   brown,   the   burn 
comes  down. 

And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae ; 
And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest, 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

"  The  sweeping  blast  the  sky  o'er- 
cast," 

The  joyless  winter-day, 
Let  others  fear,   to  me  more  dear 

Than  all  the  pride  of  May ; 
The  tempest's  howl,  it  soothes  my 
soul. 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join ; 
The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine ! 

Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty 
scheme 

These  woes  of  mine  fulfil. 
Here,  firm,  I  rest,  they  must  be  best. 

Because  they  are  thy  will. 
Then  all  I  want  (oh,  do  thou  grant 

This  one  request  of  mine !) 
Since  to  enjoy  thou  dost  deny. 

Assist  me  to  resign ! 

Burns. 

SNOW. 

Fleet  the  Tartar's  reinless  steed. 
But  fleeter  far  the  pinions  of  the 

wind. 
Which  from  Siberia's  caves  the  mon- 
arch freed, 


NATURE. 


23 


And  sent  him  forth,  with  squadrons 
of  his  kind, 

And  bade  the  snow  their  ample  backs 
bestride. 
And  to  the  battle  ride : 

No  pitying  voice  commands  a  halt, 

No   courage  can  repel  the  dire  as- 
sault : 

Distracted,  spiritless,  benumbed,  and 
blind. 

Whole  legions  sink,  and,  in  an  in- 
stant, find 

Burial  and  death:   look  for  them, 
and  descry. 

When  morn    returns,   beneath    the 
clear  blue  sky, 

A  soundless  waste,  a  trackless  va- 


cancy 


WOBDSWORTH. 


LOST  IN  THE  SNOW. 

The  snows  arise;  and,  foul  and 
fierce. 

All  winter  drives  along  the  darkened 
air: 

In  his  own  loose-revolving  fields  the 
swain 

Disastered  stands;  sees  other  hills 
ascend, 

Of  unknown  joyless  brow ;  and  other 
scenes, 

Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  track- 
less plain : 

Nor  finds  the  river,  nor  the  forest, 
hid 

Beneath  the  formless  wild,  but  wan- 
ders on 

From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and 
more  astray: 

Impatient  flouncing  through  the 
drifted  heaps. 

Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home; 
the  thoughts  of  home 

Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  call  their 
vigor  forth 

In  many  a  vain  attempt.  How  sinks 
his  soul ! 

What  black  despair,  what  horror,  fills 
his  heart ! 

When,  for  the  dusky  spot  which  fan- 
cy feigned 

His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the 
snow. 

He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  mid- 
dle waste. 


Far  from  the  track,  and  bless' d  abode 

of  man; 
While  round   him    night    resistless 

closes  fast. 
And  every  tempest,  howling  o'er  his 

head, 
Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more 

wild. 
Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into 

his  mind, 
Of      covered      pits      unfathomably 

deep, 
A  dire  descent!  beyond  the  power 

of  frost; 
Of    faithless    bogs;     of    precipices 

huge. 
Smoothed  up  with  snow;  and  what 

is  land  unknown. 
What  water,   of  the  still  unfrozen 

spring. 
In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake, 
Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the 

bottom  boils. 
These  check  his  fearful  steps;  and 

down  he  sinks 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless 

*drift. 
Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of 

death ; 
Mixed  with  the  tender  anguish  Na- 
ture shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the 

dying  man. 
His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends 

unseen. 
In  vain  for  him  th'oflBcious  wife  pre- 
pares 
The  fire  fair-blazing,  and  the  vest- 
ment warm ; 
In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping 

out 
Into  the  mingling    storm,   demand 

their  sire. 
With    tears    of    artless    innocence. 

Alas ! 
Nor  wife,  nor  children,  more  shall  he 

behold ; 
Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.    On 

every  nerve 
The  deadly  Winter  seizes ;  shuts  up 

sense, 
And,  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping 

cold. 
Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffened 

corse. 
Stretched  out,  and  bleaching  in  the 

northern  blast. 

Thomson. 


24 


PARNASSUS. 


A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 
Sharp    shivers    thro'     the    leafless 

bow'r; 
Wlien    Phnpbus    gies    a   short-liv'd 
glow'r 

Far  south  the  lift, 
Dim    dark'ning    thro'     the    flaky 
show'r, 

Or  whirlin'  drift : 

Ae    night    the    storm   the   steeples 

rocked, 
Poor   labor    sweet    in     sleep    was 

locked. 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wreaths  up- 
chocked, 

Wild-eddying  swirl. 
Or  thro'  the  mining  outlet  bocked, 
Down  headlong  hurl. 

Listening,  the  doors  an'  winnocks 

rattle. 
I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  winter  war. 
And    thro'    the    drift,   deep-lairing 
sprattle 

Beneath  a  scar. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing, 
That,  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring. 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing. 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Whare  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chitt'ring 
wing. 

An'  close  thy  e'e? 

E'en   you    on    murd'ring    errands 

toil'd, 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  ex- 
iled. 
The  blood-stained  roost,  and  sheep- 
cote  spoiled. 

My  heart  forgets. 
While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 
Sore  on  you  beats. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign. 
Dark    muffled,   viewed    the    dreary 

plain ; 
Still  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive 
train. 

Rose  in  my  soul. 
While    on   my   ear   this    plaintive 
strain. 

Slow,  solemn,  stole:  — 


*'0  ye!  who,   sunk  in  beds   of 
down, 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves 

create. 
Think  for  a  moment  on  his  wretched 
fate. 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite 
disown ! 
Ill  satisfied  keen  Nature's  clamorous 
call, 
Stretched  on  his  straw,  he  lays 
himself  to  sleep, 
While    thro'    the    ragged  roof  and 
chinky  wall. 
Chill  o'er  his  slumbers  piles  the 
drifty  heap!" 


I  heard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 

Shook  off  the  pouthery  snaw. 
And    hailed    the    morning  with    a 
cheer,  — 
A  cottage-rousing  craw ! 

Burns. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD 
YEAR. 

Full    knee-deep    lies   the    winter 
snow. 
And  the  winter  winds  are  weari- 
ly sighing : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly,  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  die ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily. 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move : 
He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 
He  hath  no  other  life  above. 
He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true 

true-love. 
And  the  New-year  will    take    'em 
away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go ; 
So  long  as  you  have  been  with 

us. 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with 

us. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 


He 


frothed 
brim: 


his    bumpers    to    the 


NATURE. 


2S 


A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 

But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 

And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die ; 
We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest ; 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er; 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride   post- 
haste ; 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 
Every  one  for  his  own. 
The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my 

friend, 
And  the  New-year  blithe   and 

bold,  my  friend. 
Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard   he  breathes!    over    the 

snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro ; 
The  cricket  chirps;  the  light  burns 

low: 
'Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 
Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for 

you: 
What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 
Speak  out  before  you  die. 

*~**THis  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes :  tie  up  his  chin : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 
And  waiteth  at  the  door. 
There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor, 

my  friend. 
And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my 

friend, 
A  new  face  at  the  door. 

Tenittson. 


THE  RIVULET. 

And  I  shall  sleep ;  and  on  thy  side. 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to  hoary  age,  and  die. 
But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to 

year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here : 


Amid   young   flowers    and    tender 

grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 
Bryant. 


THE  GARDEN. 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze, 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays, 
And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb  or 

tree, 
Wliose    short    and    narrow-verged 

shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do 

close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose ! 

Fair    Quiet,    have  I  found    thee 
here. 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear  ? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below. 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow : 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame. 
Cut  in  these   trees  their  mistress' 

name: 
Little,  alas !  they  know  or  heed 
How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed ! 
Fair  trees!    where'er   your  barks  I 

wound, 
No  name    shall   but  your  own  be 

found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passion's 
heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase,, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race ; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so. 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow ; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine ; 


26 


PARNASSUS. 


The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach, 
Into  my  hands  tliemselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Insnared    with    flowers,    I   fall    on 
grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure 

less, 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness,  — 
The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each 

kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance 

find. 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas, 
Annihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside. 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide : 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings. 
Then    whets    and    claps    its    silver 

wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight. 
Waves    in    its   plumes    the  various 

light. 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state. 
While  man  there  walked  without  a 

mate: 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet. 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet  I 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there : 
Two  paradises  are  in  one, 
To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new, 
Wliere,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run. 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we ! 
How  could  such  sweet  and  whole- 
some hours 
Be  reckoned   but  with   herbs   and 
flowers? 

Mabvell. 


•LACHIN  Y  GAIR. 

Away,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens 
of  roses ! 
In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury 
rove; 

• 


Restore  me   the    rocks   where   the 
snowflake  reposes. 
For  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom 
arid  love : 
Yet,    Caledonia,    beloved    are    thy 
mountains, 
Round  their  white  summits  though 
elements  war, 
Though   cataracts    foam,  'stead    of 
smooth-flowing  fountains, 
I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch 
na  Gair. 

Ah!   there  my  young   footsteps  in 
infancy  wandered ; 
My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak 
was  the  plaid ; 
On    chieftains    long    perished,    my 
memory  pondered. 
As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine- 
covered  glade ; 
I  sought  not  my  liome  till  the  day's 
dying  glory 
Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright 
polar  star ; 
For  Fancy  was  cheered  by  traditional 
story 
Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark 
Loch  na  Gair. 

"Shades  of  the  dead!   have   I  not 
heard  your  voices 
Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of 
the  gale?" 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 
And  rides  on   the  wind  o'er  his 
own  Highland  vale : 
Round   Loch  na  Gair,    while    the 
stormy  mist  gathers, 
Winter  presides    in    liis  cold  icy 
car; 
Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of 
my  fathers : 
They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark 
Loch  na  Gair. 

"Ill-starred,  though  brave,  did   no 
visions  foreboding 
Tell  you  that  Fate  had  forsaken 
your  cause?" 
Ah !  were  you  destined  to  die  at  Cul- 
loden, 
Victory  crowned  not  your  fall  with 
applause ; 
Still  were  you  happy ;  in  death's  early 
slumber 
You  rest  with  your  clan,  in  the 
caves  of  Braemar, 


NATURE. 


27 


Tlie  pibroch  resounds  to  the  piper's 
loud  number, 
Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark 
Loch  na  Gair. 

Years  have  rolled  on,  Loch  na  Gair, 
since  I  left  you ; 
Years  must  elapse  ere  I  tread  you 
again ; 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flowers  has 
bereft  you, 
Yet    still    are    you    dearer   than 
Albion's  plain: 
England !  thy  beauties  are  tame  and 
domestic 
To    one  who    has    roved    on  the 
mountains  afar; 
Oh  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and 
majestic, 
The  steep-frowning  glories  of  dark 
Loch  na  Gair ! 

Byron. 


THE  BOY-POET. 

There  was  a  boy ;  ye  knew  him  well, 
ye  cliffs 

And  islands  of  Winander !  Many  a 
time. 

At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars 
began 

To  move  along  the  edges  of  the 
hills, 

Kising  or  setting,  would  he  stand 
alone, 

Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glim- 
mering lake ; 

And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven, 
both  hands 

Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm  and  to 
his  mouth 

Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instru- 
ment. 

Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent 
owls, 

That  they  might  answer  him.  And 
they  would  shout 

Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout 
again. 

Responsive  to  his  call,  with  quiver- 
ing peals. 

And  long  halloos  and  screams,  and 
echoes  loud 

Redoubled  and  redoubled ;  concourse 
wild 

Of  mirth  and  jocund  din!  And 
when  it  chanced 


That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mocked 

his  skill, 
Then,   sometimes,   in  that    silence, 

while  he  hung 
Listening,   a  gentle  shock  of  mild 

surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the 

voice 
Of  mountain  torrents ;  or  the  visible 

scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 
With   all    its    solemn    imagery,   its 

rocks, 
Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heav- 
en, received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 
Wordsworth. 


THE  EARTH-SPIRIT. 

I  HAVE  woven  shrouds  of  air 
In  a  loom  of  hurrying  light. 
For    the    trees    which     blossoms 

bear, 
And  gilded  them  with  sheets  of 

bright ; 
I  fall  upon  the  grass  like  love's  first 

kiss; 
I  make  the  golden  flies  and  their 

fine  bliss ; 
I  paint  the  hedgerows  in  the  lane, 
And  clover  white  and  red  the  path- 
ways bear; 
I  laugh   aloud  in  sudden  gusts  of 

rain 
To  see  the  ocean  lash  himself   in 

air; 
I  throw  smooth  shells  and  weeds 

along  the  beach, 
And  pour  the  curling  waves  far  o'er 

the  glossy  reach ; 
Swing  birds'  nests  in  the  elms,  and 

shake  cool  moss 
Along  the  aged  beams,  and  hide  their 

loss. 
The  very  broad  rough  stones  I  glad- 
den too ; 
Some    willing  seeds  I   drop   along 

their  sides, 
Nourish  the    generous    plant    with 

freshening  dew, 
Till  there  where  all  was  waste^  true 

joy  abides. 
The  peaks  of  aged  mountains,  with 

my  care 
Smile  in  the  red  of  glowing  morn 

elate ; 


28 


PARNASSUS. 


I  bind  the  caverns  of  the  sea  with 

hair, 
Glossy,  and  long,  and  rich  as  kings' 

estate ; 
I  polish  the  green  ice,  and  gleam 

the  wall 
With  the  white  frost,  and  leaf  the 

brown  trees  tall. 

Channing. 


THE  PASS  OF  KIRKSTONE. 

Within"   the   mind   strong   fancies 

work, 
A  deep  delight  the  bosom  thrills, 
Oft  as  I  pass  along  the  fork 
Of  these  fraternalliills. 
Where,  save  the  rugged  road,  we 

find 
No  appanage  of  human  kind. 
Nor  hint  of  man ;  if  stone  or  rock 
Seem  not  his  handiwork  to  mock 
By  something  cognizably  shaped; 
Mockery,  or  model  roughly  hewn. 
And  left  as  if  by  earthquake  strewn, 
Or  from  the  flood  escaped : 
Altars  for  Druid  service  fit ; 
(But  where  no  fire  was  ever  lit. 
Unless  the  glow-worm  to  the  skies 
Thence  offer  nightly  sacrifice,) 
Wrinkled  Egyptian  monument ; 
Green  moss-grown  tower;  or  hoary 

tent; 
Tents  of  a  camp  that  never  shall  be 

raised  — 
On  which  four  thousand  years  have 

gazed ! 

II. 

Ye  ploughshares  sparkling  on  the 

slopes ! 
Ye  snow-white  lambs  that  trip 
Imprisoned  'mid  the  formal  props 
Of  restless  ownership ! 
Ye  trees,  that  may  to-morrow  fall 
To  feed  the  insatiate  prodigal ! 
Lawns,  houses,  chattels,  groves,  and 

fields, 
All  that  the  fertile  valley  shields ; 
Wages  of  folly,  baits  of  crime, 
Of  life's  uneasy  game  the  stake, 
Playthings  that  keep  the  eyes  awake 
Of  drowsy,  dotard  Time,  — 
O    care!    O    guilt!     O    vales    and 

plains. 
Here,  'mid   his    own  unvexed  do- 
mains. 


A  genius  dwells,  that  can  subdue 
At  once  all  memory  of  You,  — 
Most  potent  when    mists    veil    the 

sky,  — 
Mists  that  distort  and  magnify ; 
While    the    coarse    rushes    to    the 

sweeping  breeze 
Sigh  forth  their  ancient  melodies ! 

in. 

List  to  those   shriller   notes!   that 

march 
Perchance  was  on  the  blast. 
When,  through  this  height's  inverted 

arch, 
Rome's  earliest  legion  passed! 
They  saw,  adventurously  impelled. 
And  older  eyes  than  theirs  beheld, 
This  block,  and  yon,  whose  church- 
like frame 
Gives  to  this  savage  pass  its  name. 
Aspiring  Road !  that  lov'st  to  hide 
Thy  daring  in  a  vapory  bourn. 
Not  seldom  may  the  hour  return 
When  thou  shalt  be  my  guide. 

Wordsworth. 


SOLITUDE. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless 
woods ; 

There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely 
shore ; 

There  is  society  where  none  in- 
trudes, 

By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its 
roar : 

I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature 
more. 

From  these  our  interviews,  in  which 
I  steal 

From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been 
before. 

To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and 
feel 

Wliat  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  can- 
not all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark-blue 

ocean,  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee 

in  vain : 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin :  his 

control 
Stops    with    the    shore:   upon    the 

watery  plain 


NATURE. 


29 


The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor 
doth  remain 

A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his 
own, 

When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of 
rain, 

He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bub- 
bling groan. 

Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncof- 
fined,  and  unknown. 

Byron:  CJiilde Harold. 


TmTEEN  ABBEY. 


I  HAVE  learned 

To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the 
hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing 
oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,    though  of 
ample  power 

To   chasten    and    subdue.     And    I 
have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with 
the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sub- 
lime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  inter- 
fused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  set- 
ting suns. 

And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living 
air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind 
of  man,  — 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all 
thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.  There- 
fore am  I  still 
er  of  tj 
woods, 

And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we 
behold 

From  this  green  earth;  of  all  the 
mighty  world 

Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half 
create. 

And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to 
recognize 

In  Nature  and  the  language  of  the 
sense 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts. 

WOKDSWOIiTH. 


FLOWEKS. 

O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted, 

thou  let' St  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon!  daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares, 

and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty; 

violets  dim. 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's 

eyes. 
Or  Cytherea's  breath;    pale    prim- 
roses, 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can 

behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,   a 

malady 
Most  incident  to  maids ;  bold  ox-lips, 

and 
The   crown-imperial;    lilies    of    all 

kinds. 
The  flower-de-luce   being   one!   O, 

these  I  lack, 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and  my 

sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er! 

Shakspeare  :  Winter^  s  Tale. 


THE  SUNFLOWER. 

Ah,  sunflower !  weary  of  time. 
Who  countest  the  steps  of  the  sun, 
Seeking   after    that    sweet    golden 

clime, 
Where    the    traveller's    journey    is 

done ; 

Where  the  youth  pined  away  with 

desire. 
And   the    pale   virgin  shrouded  in 

snow, 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 
Where  my  sunflower  wishes  to  go. 
William  Blake. 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the 

saddest  of  the  year. 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods, 

and  meadows  brown  and  sear. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove, 

the  withered  leaves  lie  dead  : 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and 

to  the  rabbit's  tread. 


30 


PARNASSUS. 


The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown, 
and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay; 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the 
crow,  through  all  the  gloomy 
day. 

Where    are    the    flowers,    the    fair 

young    flowers,     that     lately 

sprang  and  stood. 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a 

beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas!  they  all  are  in  their  graves: 

the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with 

tlie  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie; 

but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls    not,    from    out    the    gloomy 

earth,  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The    wind-flower    and    the    violet, 

they  perished  long  ago ; 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis 

died  amid  the  summer  glow ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and 

the  aster  in  the  wood. 
And  the    yellow  sunflower   by  the 

brook,  in  autumn  beauty  stood. 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold 

heaven,  as  falls  the  plague  on 

men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile 

was  gone  from  upland,  glade, 

and  glen. 

And  now  when  comes  the  calm  mild 

day,   as  still  such  days    will 

come. 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from 

out  their  winter  home ; 
Wlien  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is 

heard,  though  all  the  trees  are 

still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the 

waters  of  the  rill,  — 
The    south    wind  searches  for  the 

flowers  whose  fragrance  late 

he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood 

and  by  the  stream  no  more. 
And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her 

youthful  beauty  died. 
The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew 

up,  and  faded  by  my  side : 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her 

when  the  forest  cast  the  leaf, 
And    we  wept  that    one  so   lovely 

should  have  a  life  so  brief ; 


Yet  not  unmeet  it  was,  that  one, 
like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should 
perish  with  the  flowers. 

Bryant. 


TO   THE    FRINGED    GENTIAN. 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn 

dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own 

blue. 
That  openest,  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs 

unseen. 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  drest. 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden 

nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone. 

When  woods  are  bare,  and  birds  are 
flown. 

And  frosts  and  shortening  days  por- 
tend 

The  aged  year  is  near  its  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look    through    its    fringes    to    the 

Blue,  blue,  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of    death  draw  near    to 

me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart. 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 

Bryant. 

TREES. 

A  SHADIE  grove  not  far  away  they 
spied. 

That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to 
withstand ; 

Whose  loftie  trees,  yclad  with  som- 
mers  pride. 

Did  spred  so  broad,  that  heaven's 
light  did  hide. 

Not  perceable  with  power  of  any 
Starr ; 

And  all  within  were  pathes  ana  al- 
leles wide, 


NATURE. 


31 


With  footing  wome,  and  leading  in- 
ward far : 

Faire  harbour  that  them  seems ;  so 
in  they  entred  are. 

And  forth  they  passe,  with  pleasure 

forward  led, 
Joying  to  heare  the  birdes'  sweete 

harmony. 
Which  therein  shrouded  from  the 

tempest  dred. 
Seemed  in  their  song  to  scorne  the 

cruell  sky. 
Much  can  they  praise  the  trees  so 

straight  and  high, 
The  sayling  pine;  the  cedar  proud 

and  tall ; 
The  vine-propp  elme ;  the  poplar  nev- 
er dry ; 
The  builder  oake,  sole  king  of  for- 

rests  all ; 
The  aspine  good  for  staves ;  the  cy- 

presse  funerall ; 

The  laurell  meed  of  mightie  con- 
querours 

And  poets  sage;  the  fir  that  weep- 
eth  still ; 

The  willow,  worne  of  forlorne  para- 
mours ; 

The  yew,  obedient  to  the  bender's 
will; 

The  birch  for  shaftes ;  the  sallow  for 
the  mill ; 

The  mirrhe  sweet-bleeding  in  the 
bitter  wound ; 

The  warlike  beech;  the  ash  for 
nothing  ill ; 

The  fruitful  olive ;  and  the  platane 
round ; 

The  carver  holme;  the  maple,  sel- 
dom inward  sound. 

Spenser. 


YEW-TREES. 

There  is  a  yew-tree,  pride  of  Lor- 

ton  Vale, 
Wliich  to  this  day  stands  single  in 

the  midst 
Of  its  own  darkness,  as  it  stood  of 

yore: 
]!?'ot  loath  to  furnish  weapons  for  the 

bands 


Of   Umfraville    or  Percy  ere   they 
marched 

To  Scotland's  heaths;  or  those  that 
crossed  the  sea, 

And  drew  their  sounding  bows  at 
Azincour ; 

Perhaps  at  earlier  Crecy,  or  Poic- 
tiers. 

Of   vast  circumference  and  gloom 
profound 

This  solitary  Tree !  a  living  thing 

Produced  too  slowly  ever  to  decay ; 

Of  form  and    aspect    too    magnifi- 
cent 

To  be  destroyed.    But  worthier  still 
of  note 

Are  those  fraternal  Four  of  Borrow- 
dale, 

Joined  in  one  solemn  and  capacious 
grove ; 

Huge  trunks!   and  each  particular 
trunk  a  growth 

Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine 

Up-coiling,    and    inveterately    con- 
volved ; 

Nor  uninformed  with  fantasy,  and 
looks 

That  threaten  the  profane ;  a  pillared 
shade, 

Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red- 
brown  hue. 

By  sheddings  from  the  pining  um- 
brage tinged 

Perennially;    beneath   whose    sable 
roof 

Of  boughs,  as  if  for  festal  purpose, 
decked 

With    unrejoicing    berries,    ghostly 
shapes 

May  meet  at  noontide;   Fear,  and 
trembling  Hope, 

Silence,  and  Foresight ;   Death  the 
Skeleton, 

And  Time  the  Shadow ;  there  to  cele- 
brate. 

As  in  a  natural    temple    scattered 
o'er 

With  altars  undisturbed  of   mossy 
stone. 

United    worship;     or    in    mute    re- 
pose 

To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain 
flood 

Murmuring   from    Glaramara's    in- 
most caves. 

Wordsworth. 


82 


PAHNASSUS. 


THE  OSMUNDA  REGALIS. 

Often,  trifling  with  a  privilege 
Alike  indulged  to  all,  we  paused,  one 

now, 
And  now  the  other,  to  point  out, 

perchance 
To  pluck,  some  flower  or  water-weed 

too  fair 
Either  to  be  divided  from  the  place 
On  which  it  grew,  or  to  be  left  alone 
To  its  own  beauty.     Many  such  there 

are. 
Fair  ferns  and  flowers,  and  chiefly 

that  tall  fern. 
So  stately,  of  the  queen  Osmunda 

named ; 
Plant  lovelier,  in  its  own  retired  abode 
On  Grasmere's  beach,  than  Naiad  by 

the  side 
Of  Grecian  brook,  or  Lady  of  the 

Mere, 
Sole-sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  ro- 
mance. 

Wordsworth. 


THE  BARBERRY-BUSH. 

The  bush  that  has  most  briers  and 

bitter  fruit : 
Wait  till    the  frost  has  turned  its 

green  leaves  red, 
Its  sweetened  berries  will  thy  palate 

suit. 
And  thou  mayst  find  e'en  there  a 

homely  bread. 
Upon  the  hills  of  Salem  scattered 

wide. 
Their  yellow  blossoms  gain  the  eye 

in  spring; 
And,  straggling  e'en  upon  the  turn- 
pike's side, 
Their  ripened  branches  to  your  hand 

they  bring. 
I've  plucked  them  oft  in  boyhood's 

early  hour. 
That  then  I  gave  such  name,  and 

thought  it  true ; 
But  now  I  know  that  other  fruit  as 

sour 
Grows  on  what  now  thou  callest  me 

and  you: 
Yet  wilt  thou  wait,  the  autumn  that 

I  see 
Will  sweeter  taste  than   these  red 

berries  be. 

Jones  Very. 


TO  THE  HERB  ROSEMARY. 

Sweet-scented    flower!    who    art 
wont  to  bloom 
On  January's  front  severe. 
And  o'er  the  wintry  desert  drear 
To  waft  thy  waste  perfume ! 
Come,  thou  shalt  form  my  nosegay 
now, 
And  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow ; 
And    as    I    twine    the    mournful 
wreath, 
I'll  weave  a  melancholy  song, 
And  sweet  the  strain  shall  be,  and 
long,  — 
The  melody  of  death. 

Come,  funeral  flower!  who  lov'st  to 
dwell 
With    the    pale    corse    in    lonely 
tomb. 
And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 

A  sweet  decaying  smell. 
Come,   press  my  lips,  and  lie  with 

me 
Beneath  the  lowly  alder-tree. 

And  we  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep. 
And    not    a    care    shall    dare    in- 
trude 
To  break  the  marble  solitude. 
So  peaceful  and  so  deep. 

And  hark !  the  wind-god,  as  he  flies, 
Moans  hollow  in  the  forest  trees. 
And,  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze. 
Mysterious  music  dies. 
Sweet  fl6wer!  that  requiem  wild 

is  mine ; 
It  warns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine. 
The  cold  turf  altar  of  the  dead ; 
My  grave  shall  be  in    yon    lone 

spot. 
Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 
A  dying  fragrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my 
ashes  shed. 

H.  K.  White. 


THE  PRIMROSE. 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here 
This  sweet  Infanta  of  the  yeere? 

Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 
This  Primrose,  thus  bepearl'd  with 
dew  ? 
I  will  whisper  to  your  eares. 
The  sweets  of  love  are  mixt  ■with 
tears. 


NATURE. 


33 


Ask  me  why  this  flower  does  show  | 
So  yellow-green  and  sickly  too  ? 

Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak 
And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ? 

I  will  answer,  these  discover 
What  fainting  hopes  are  in  a  lover. 
Herkick. 


TO  DAFFODILLS. 

Faire  Daffodills,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soone ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 

Has  not  attain' d  his  noone. 
Stay,  stay, 

Untill  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song ; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,  we 

Will  goe  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay. 
As  you,  or  any  thing. 

We  die 
As  your  hours  doe,  and  drie 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  raine; 
Or  as  the  pearles  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  againe. 

Herkick. 


DAFFODILS, 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and 

hills, 
Wlien  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
A  host,  of  golden  daffodils ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering,  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing    their    heads    in    sprightly 
dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but 

they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : 
3 


A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company : 
I  gazed,  and  gazed,  but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had 
brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure 

fills. 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

Wordsworth. 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past, 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  a  while 
To  blush  and  gently  smile. 
And  go  at  last. 

What,  were  ye  bom  to  be 
An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 

'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth 
Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave: 
And  after  they  have  shown   their 
pride 
Like  you,  a  while,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

Herrick. 


LIBERTY. 

Who  can  divine  what  impulses  from 

God 
Reach  the  caged  lark,  within  a  town 

abode. 
From  his  poor  inch  or  two  of  daisied 

sod? 
Oh,  yield  him  back  his  privilege !  No 

sea 
Swells  like  the  bosom  of  a  man  set 

free : 
A  wilderness  is  rich  with  liberty. 


34 


PARNASSUS. 


Roll  on,  ye  spouting  whales,  who  die 

or  keep 
Your  independence  in  the  fathomless 

deep! 
Spread,  tiny  Nautilus,  the  living  sail ; 
Dive,   at  thy  choice,   or  brave  the 

freshening  gale ! 
If  un  reproved  the  ambitious  eagle 

mount 
Sunward  to  seek  the  daylight  in  its 

fount. 
Bays,    gulfs,    and    ocean's    Indian 

width,  shall  be, 
Till  the  world  perishes,  a  field  for 

thee ! 

Wordsworth. 


NIGHT. 

Come,  seeling  night, 

Skarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful 
day. 

And,  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible 
hand. 

Cancel,  and  tear  to  pieces,  that  great 
bond 

Which  keeps  me  pale !  —  Light  thick- 
ens ;  and  the  crow 

Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood. 

Shakspeare:  Macbeth. 


THE  DIAMOND. 

Star  of  the  flowers,  and  flower  of  the 

stars. 
And  earth  of  the  earth,  art  thou ! 
And  darkness  hath  battles,  and  light 

hath  wars 
That  pass  in  thy  beautiful  brow. 

The  eye  of   the  ground   thus  was 

planted  by  heaven. 
And  the  dust  was  new  wed  to  the 

sun. 
And  the  monarch  went  forth,  and 

the  earth-star  was  given, 
That  should  back  to  the  heaven-star 

run. 

So  in  all  things  it  is :  the  first  origin 
lives, 

And  loves  his  life  out  to  his  flock; 

And  in  dust,  and  in  matter,  and  na- 
ture, he  gives 

The  spirit's  last  spark  to  the  rock. 

J.  J.  G.  Wilkinson. 


SEPTEMBER. 

1819. 

And,  sooth  to  say,  yon  vocal  grove 
Albeit  uninspired  by  love. 
By  love  untaught  to  ring. 
May  well  afford  to  mortal  ear 
An  impulse  more  profoundly  dear 
Than  music  of  the  spring. 

But  list!  though  winter's  storms  be 

nigh. 
Unchecked  is  that  soft  harmony : 
There  lives  Who  can  provide 
For  all  his  creatures ;  and  in  him, 
Even  like  the  radiant  Seraphim, 
These  Choristers  confide. 

Wordsworth. 


NIGHTINGALE. 

Oft  when,  returning  with  her  loaded 

bill, 
Th'  astonish' d  mother  finds  a  vacant 

nest. 
By  the  hard  hand   of    unrelenting 

clown 
Robb'd;  to  the  ground  the  vain  pro- 
vision falls ; 
Her  pinions  ruflie,  and  low-drooping 

scarce 
Can  bear  the  mourner  to  the  poplar 

shade ; 
Where,  all  abandoned  to  despair,  she 

sings 
Her  sorrows  thro'  the  night ;  and  on 

the  bough 
Sole-sitting,  still  at  every  dying  fall 
Takes  up  again  her  lamentable  strain 
Of  winding  woe,  till,  wide  around, 

the  woods 
Sigh  to  her  song,  and  with  her  wail 

resound. 

Thomson. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  im- 
mortal bird ! 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee 
down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night 
was  heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and 
clown, — 


NATURE. 


35 


Perhaps  the  selfsame  song  that  found 
a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth, 
when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien 
corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening 
on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,   in  faery  lands 
forlorn. 

Keats. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made. 
Beasts  did  leap,  and  birds  did  sing. 
Trees    did    grow,   and    plants     did 

spring. 
Every  thing  did  banish  moan. 
Save  the  nightingale  alone. 
She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 
Leaned  her  breast  against  a  thorn, 
And  there  sung  the  dolefulest  ditty, 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 
Fie,  fie,  fie !  now  would  she  cry ; 
Tereu,  tereu,  by  and  by : 
That  to  hear  her  so  complain 
Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain ; 
For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 
Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 
Ah,   thought  I,   thou    mourn' st   in 

vain. 
None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain : 
Senseless    trees,  they  cannot   hear 

thee. 
Ruthless  beasts,  they  will  not  cheer 

thee ; 
King  Pandiva,  he  is  dead, 
All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead : 
All  thy  fellow-birds  do  sing 
Careless  of  thy  sorrowing ; 
Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee. 
None  alive  will  pity  me. 

R.  Babnefield. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE'S  SONG. 

Round  my  own  pretty  rose  I  have 

hovered  all  day, 
I  have  seen  its  sweet  leaves  one  by 

one  fall  away : 


They  are  gone,  they  are  gone ;  but  I 

go  not  with  them, 
I   linger  to  weep    o'er  its  desolate 

stem. 

They  say  if  I  rove  to  the  south  I 

shall  meet 
With  hundreds  of  roses  more   fair 

and  more  sweet ; 
But  my  heart,  when  I'm  tempted  to 

wander,  replies. 
Here  my  first  love,  my  last  love,  my 

only  love  lies. 

When  the  last  leaf  is  withered,  and 
falls  to  the  earth, 

The   false  one  to  southerly  climes 
may  fly  forth ; 

But  truth  cannot  fly  from  his  sor- 
rows :  he  dies. 

Where  his  first  love,  his  last  love,  his 
only  love  lies. 

T.  H.  Bayly. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE'S  DEATH- 
SONG. 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully. 

And  die  away  my  heart ! 
The  rose,  the  glorious  rose,  is  gone, 

And  I,  too,  will  depart. 

The  skies  have  lost  their  splendor, 
The  waters  changed  their  tone, 

And  wherefore,  in  the  faded  world, 
Should  music  linger  on  ? 

Where  is  the  golden  sunshine. 
And  where  the  flower-cup's  glow? 

And  where  the  joy  of  the  dancing 
leaves, 
And  the  fountain's  laughing  flow? 

Tell  of  the  brightness  parted, 
Thou  bee,  thou  lamb  at  play ! 

Thou  lark,  in  thy  victorious  mirth ! 
Are  ye,  too,  passed  away  ? 

With  sunshine,  with  sweet  odor. 
With  every  precious  thing. 

Upon  the  last  warm  southern  breeze, 
My  soul  its  flight  shall  wing. 

Alone  I  shall  not  linger 

When  the  days  of  hope  are  past, 
To  watch  the  fall  of  leaf  by  leaf, 

To  wait  the  rushing  blast. 


36 


PARNASSUS. 


Triumphantly,  triumphantly, 

Sing  to  the  woods,  I  go ! 
For  me,  perchance,  in  other  lands 

The  glorious  rose  may  blow. 

No  more,  no  more,  sing  mournfully  I 
Swell  high,  then  break,  my  heart ! 

The  rose,  the  royal  rose,  is  gone, 
And  I,  too,  will  depart. 

Hemans. 

THE  BIRD. 

"  Birdie,  Birdie,  will  you,  pet? 
Summer  is  far  and  far  away  yet. 
You'll  have  silken  quilts  and  a  vel- 
vet bed, 
And  a  pillow  of  satin  for  your  head." 

"  I'd  rather  sleep  in  the  ivy  wall : 
No  rain   comes  through,  though  I 

hear^it  fall ; 
The  sun  peeps  gay  at  dawn  of  day, 
And  I  sing,  and  wing  away,  away ! " 

"O  Birdie,  Birdie,  will  you,  pet? 
Diamond  stones  and  amber  and  jet 
We'  11  string  on  a  necklace  fair  and  fine, 
To  please  this  pretty  bird  of  mine." 

"Oh!  thanks    for    diamonds,    and 

thanks  for  jet ; 
But  here  is  something  daintier  yet,  — 
A  feather  necklace,  round  and  round, 
That  I  would  not  sell  for  a  thousand 

pound!" 

"O  Birdie,  Birdie,  won't  you,  pet? 
We'll  buy  you  a  dish  of  silver  fret, 
A  golden  cup  and  an  ivory  seat. 
And  carpets  soft  beneath  your  feet." 

"  Can  running  water  be  drunk  from 

gold? 
Can  a  silver  dish  the  forest  hold  ? 
A  rocking  twig  is  the  finest  chair, 
And  the  softest  paths  lie  through  the 

air: 
Good-by,  good-by,  to  my  lady  fair." 
Allinqham. 


TO  THE  SKY-LARK. 

Ethereal  minstrel,  pilgrim  of  the 

sky ! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where 

cares  abound  ? 


Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart 

and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy 

ground  ?  — 
Thy  nest,  which  thou  canst  drop  into 

at  will, 
Those   quivering    wings    composed, 

that  music  still ! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  be- 
yond, 

Mount,  daring  warbler !  That  love- 
prompted  strain, 

'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing 
bond. 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the 
plain ; 

Yet  might' St  thou  seem,  proud  privi- 
lege !  to  sing 

All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady 
wood; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine. 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the 
world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  di- 
vine; 

Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never 
roam. 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  heaven 
and  home. 

Wordsworth. 


TO  A  SKY-LARK. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  ij 
heeded  not. 

Shelley. 


BREEDING  LARl?., 

I  MUST  go  furnish  up 

A  nest  I  have  begun. 

And  will  return  and  bring  ye  meat. 

As  soon  as  it  is  done. 

Then  up  she  clambe  the  clouds 
With  such  a  lusty  lay, 
That  it  rejoiced  her  younglings'  heart, 
As  in  their  nest  they  lay. 

Arthur  BoAit 


KATURE. 


87 


FLIGHT  OF  THE  WILD  GEESE. 

Kambling  along  the  marshes, 
On  the  bank  of  the  Assabet, 
Sounding  myself  as  to  how  it  went, 
Praying  that  I  might  not  forget. 
And  all  uncertain 
Whether  I  was  in  the  right, 
Toiling  to  lift  Time's  curtain, 
And  if  I  burnt  the  strongest  light ; 
Suddenly, 
High  in  the  air, 
I  heard  the  travelled  geese 
Their  overture  prepare. 

Stirred  above  the  patent  ball, 
The  wild  geese  flew, 
Nor  near  so  wild^as  that  doth  me  be- 
fall, 
Or,  swollen  Wisdom,  you. 

In  the  front  there  fetched  a  leader. 
Him  behind  the  line  spread  out. 
And  waved  about, 
As  it  was  near  night, 
When   these    air-pilots    stop    their 
flight. 

Cruising  off  the  shoal  dominion 

Where  we  sit, 

Depending  not  on  their  opinion. 

Nor  hiving  sops  of  wit ; 

Geographical  in  tact. 

Naming  not  a  pond  or  river, 

Pulled  with  twilight  down  in  fact. 

In  the  reeds  to  quack  and  quiver, 

There  they  go, 

Spectators  at  the  play  below. 

Southward  in  a  row. 

Cannot  land  and  map  the  stars 
The  indifferent  geese, 
Nor  taste  the  sweetmeats  in  odd  jars, 
Nor  speculate  and  freeze ; 
Kajcid  weasands  need  be  well. 
Feathers  glossy,  quills  in  order. 
Starts  this  train,  yet  rings  no  bell ; 
Steam  is  raised  without  recorder. 

"  Up,  my  feathered  fowl,  all,"  — 
Saith  the  goose  commander, 
"Brighten  your  bills,  and  flirt  your 

pinions, 
My  toes  are  nipped,  — let  us  render 
Ourselves  in  soft  Guatemala, 
Or  suck  puddles  in  Campeachy, 
Spitzbergen-cake  cuts  very  frosty, 
And  the  tipple  is  not  leechy. 


"Let's  brush  loose  for  any  creek, 
There  lurk  fish  and  fly, 
Condiments  to  fat  the  weak, 
Inundate  the  pie. 
Flutter  not  about  a  place. 
Ye  concomitants  of  space!" 

Mute  the  listening  nations  stand 

On  that  dark  receding  land ; 

How  faint  their  villages  and  towns, 

Scattered  on  the  misty  downs ! 

A  meeting-house 

Appears  no  bigger  than  a  mouse. 

How  long  ? 

Never  is  a  question  asked. 
While  a  throat  can  lift  the  song, 
Or  a  flapping  wing  be  tasked. 

All  the  grandmothers  about 
Hear  the  orators  of  Heaven, 
Then  put  on  their  woollens  stout. 
And  cower  o'er  the  hearth  at  even; 
And  the  children  stare  at  the  sky. 
And  laugh  to  see  the  long  black  line 
so  high ! 

Then  once  more  I  heard  them  say,  — 
" '  Tis  a  smooth,  delightful  road, 
Difficult  to  lose  the  way, 
And  a  trifle  for  a  load. 

"  'Twas  our  forte  to  pass  for  this. 
Proper  sack  of  sense  to  borrow, 
Wings  and  legs,  and  bills  that  clat- 
ter. 
And  the  horizon  of  To-morrow." 

Channing. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

Whither,  'midst  falling  dew. 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last 

steps  of  day  ? 
Far  through  their  rosy  depths  dost 
thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Yainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do 

thee  wrong. 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson 
sky. 
Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide. 


88 


PARNASSUS. 


Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise 
and  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless 

coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air,  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned 
At  that  far  height  the    cold,  thin 

atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome 
land. 
Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end. 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home, 

and  rest. 
And    scream    among   thy    fellows: 
reeds  shall  bend, 
Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet 

on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou 
hast  given. 
And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone. 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky 

thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread 
alone 
Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

Bryant. 


THE  EAGLE. 

He  clasps    the  crag   with   hooked 

hands ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands. 
Ringed  with  the    azure  world,  he 

stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls: 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls. 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 

Tennyson. 


OCEAN. 

Great  Ocean!    strongest  of   crea- 
tion's sons. 
Unconquerable,  unreposed,  untired, 


That  rolled  the  wild,  profound,  eter- 
nal bass 

In  nature's  anthem,  and  made  mu- 
sic such 

As  pleased  the  ear  of  God !  original, 

Unmarred,  unf aded  work  of  Deity ! 

And  unburlesqued  by  mortal's  puny 
skill ; 

From  age  to  age  enduring,  and  un- 
changed, 

Majestical,  inimitable,  vast. 

Loud  uttering  satire,  day  and  night, 
on  each 

Succeeding  race,  and  little  pompous 
work 

Of  man ;  unfallen,  religious,  holy  sea ! 

Thou  bowedst  thy  glorious  head  to 
none,  fearedst  none, 

Heardst  none,  to  none  didst  honor, 
but  to  God 

Thy  Maker,  only  worthy  to  receive 

Thy  great  obeisance. 

POLLOK. 


OCEAN. 

See  living  vales    by  living  waters 

blessed. 
Their  wealth  see  earth's  dark  caverns 

yield. 
See  Ocean  roll  in  glory  dressed. 
For  all  a  treasure,  aad  round  all  a 

shield. 

Charles  Sprague. 


SEA  SONG. 

Our  boat  to  the  waves  go  free. 
By  the  bending    tide,  where  the 

curled  wave  breaks. 
Like  the  track  of  the  wind  on  the 
white  snowflakes : 
Away,  away !  'Tis  a  path  o'er  the  sea. 

Blasts  may  rave,  —  spread  the  sail. 
For  our  spirits  can  wrest  the  power 

from  the  wind. 
And  the  gray  clouds  yield  to  the 
sunny  mind, 
Fear  not  we  the  whirl  of  the  gale. 


Waves  on  the  beach,  and  the  wild 
sea-foam. 

With  a  leap,  and  a  dash,  and  a  sud- 
den cheer, 


NATURE. 


39 


Where  the  seaweed  makes  its  bend- 
ing home, 
And  tlie  sea-birds  swim  on  the  crests 
so  clear, 
Wave  after  wave,  they  are  curling 

o'er, 
While  the  white  sand  dazzles  along 
the  shore. 

Chaining. 


SEA  SONG. 

A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast. 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys. 

While,  like  the  eagle  free. 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

There's  tempest  inyonhornM  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
And  hark,  the  music,  mariners ! 

The  wind  is  wakening  loud. 
The  wind  is  wakening  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free ; 
The  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


SEA. 

O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark- 
blue  sea, 

Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our 
souls  as  free. 

Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  bil- 
lows foam. 

Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our 
home! 
!  are  oi 
their  sway ; 

Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet 
obey. 

Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to 
range 

From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every 
change. 

Oh !  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxuri- 
ous slave ! 

Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the 
heaving  wave ; 


Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness 
and  ease ! 

Whom  slumber  soothes  not,  pleasure 
cannot  please,  — 

Oh!  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose 
heart  hath  tried. 

And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  wa- 
ters wide. 

The  exulting  sense,  the  pulse's  mad- 
dening play. 

That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that 
trackless  way  ? 

Byron:  Corsair. 


THE  CORAL  GROVE. 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 
Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold- 
fish rove ; 
Where    the    sea-flower   spreads    its 

leaves  of  blue, 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew. 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty 

shine 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy 

brine. 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  moun- 
tain drift. 
And    the    pearl-shells    spangle    the 

flinty  snow : 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and 

billows  flow ; 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 
For  the  winds  and   the  waves   are 

absent  there. 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars 

that  glow 
In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air : 
There    with    its    waving   blade    of 

green. 
The  sea-flag    streams    through   the 

silent  water. 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is 

seen 
To  blush  like  a   banner  bathed  in 

slaughter : 
There  with  a  light  and  easy  motion 
The  fan  coral  sweeps  through  the 

clear  deep  sea ; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of 

ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland 

lea; 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms. 
Is  sporting   amid   those   bowers  of 

stone. 


40 


PARNASSUS. 


And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit 

of  storms 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  waves  his 

own: 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury 

flies, 
Wlien  the  myriad  voices    of   ocean 

roar. 
When  the  wind-god  frowns    in  the 

murky  skies. 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck 

on  the  shore. 
Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea. 
The    purple    mullet    and    gold-fish 

rove, 
Wliere    the   waters    murmur    tran- 
quilly 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the 

coral  grove. 

Percival. 


INSCRIPTION    ON    A    SEA 
SHELL. 

Pleased  we  remember  bur  august 

abodes. 
And  murmur  as  the  ocean  murmurs 

there. 

Landor. 


OUT  AND  INWARD  BOUND. 

All  things  that  are. 

Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than 
enjoy'd. 

How  like  a  younker  or  a  prodigal 

The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her 
native  bay, 

Hugg'd  and  embraced  by  the  strum- 
pet windl 

How  like  the  prodigal  doth  she  re- 
turn 

With  over-weather' d  ribs,  and  ragged 
sails, 

Lean,  rent,  and  beggar' d  by  the 
strumpet  wind  I 

SlIAKSPEARE. 

Merchant  of  Venice.    Act  ii.  Sc.  6. 


TACKING  SHIP  OFF  SHORE. 

The  weather-leech  of  the  topsail 
shivers. 

The  bow-lines  strain,  and  the  lee- 
shrouds  slacken, 


The  braces  are  taut,  the  lithe  boom 

quivers. 
And    tiie  waves    with    the  coming 

squall-cloud  blacken. 

Open  one  point  on  the  weather-bow, 

Is  the  light-house  tall  on  Fire  Island 
Head? 

There's  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  cap- 
tain's brow. 

And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving 
lead. 

I  stand  at  the  wheel,  and  with  eager 

eye, 
To  sea  and  to  sky  and  to  shore  I  gaze, 
Till  the  muttered  order  of  "^  Full  and 

by!'' 
Is  suddenly  changed  for  ^^  Full  for 

stays  /  " 

The  ship   bends    lower  before   the 

breeze, 
As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  she 

lays; 
And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising 

seas, 
As  the  pilot  calls,   "  Stand  by  for 

stays  I  ^^ 

It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place. 

With  the  gathered  coil  in  his  har- 
dened hands. 

By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and 
brace. 

Waiting  the  watchword  impatient 
stands. 

And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  Head 

draws  near, 
As,  trumpet-winged,  the  pilot's  shout 
From  his  post  on  the  bowsprit's  heel 

I  hear, 
With  the  welcome  call  of  "  Beady  ! 

About!'' 

No  time  to  spare  I   It  is  touch  and  go ; 
And    the   captain    growls,  "Down, 

helm !  hard  down  I " 
As  my  weight  on  the  whirling  spokes 

I  throw. 
While  heaven  grows  black  with  the 

storm-cloud's  frown. 

High  o'er  the  knight-heads  flies  the 
spray, 

As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plun- 
ging sea; 


KATURE. 


m. 


And  my  shoulder  stiff  to  the  wheel  I 

lay. 
As  I  answer,  "Ay,  ay,  sir!  Ha-a-rd 

a  lee  !  " 

With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled 

steed 
The  ship  flies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the 

wind, 
The  dangerous    shoals    on  the   lee 

recede, 
And  the   headland  white  we  have 

left  behind. 

The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse, 
And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning 

cleats ; 
The  spanker  slats,  and  the  mainsail 

flaps; 
And  thunders  the  order,  "  Tacks  and 

sheets  !  " 

'Mid  the  rattle  of  blocks  and  the 
tramp  of  the  crew, 

Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall : 

The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to 
clew, 

And  now  is  the  moment  for,  "Main- 
sail, haul ! " 

And  the  heavy  yards,  like  a  baby's 
toy, 

By  fifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly 
swung : 

She  holds  her  way,  and  I  look  with 
joy 

For  the  first  white  spray  o'er  the  bul- 
warks flung. 

"iei  go,  and  haul!^^  'Tis  the  last 

command. 
And  the  head-saiis    fill  to  the  blast 

once  more : 
Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 
With    its    breakers    white    on    the 

shingly  shore. 

What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain, 

or  the  squall  ? 
I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea ; 
The  first  mate  clamors,  ''Belay  there, 

all!" 
And  the  captain's  breath  once  more 

comes  free. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship 

fly; 

Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow. 


In  my  fo' castle  bunk,  in  a  jacket 

dry. 
Eight  bells  have  struck  and  my  watch 

is  below. 

Walter  Mitchel. 


SONG  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS  IN 
BERMUDA. 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied. 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along, 
The  listening  winds    received    this 

song : — 
"What  should  we  do  but  sing  His 

praise. 
That    led    us    through   the  watery 

maze 
Where  He  the   huge    sea-monsters 

wracks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs. 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage. 
Safe  from  the  storms,  and  prelate's 

rage: 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  every  thing. 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright. 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night. 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows : 
He  makes  the  figs   our  mouths  to 

meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 
But  apples,  plants  of  such  a  price. 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars  chosen  by  his  hand 
From  Lebanon  he  stores  the  land ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 
Oh !  let  our  voice  his  praise  exalt 
Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault, 
Which  then  perhaps  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay." 
Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note : 
And  all    the  way,   to    guide    their 

chime. 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 
A.  Marvell. 


42 


PAHNASSUS. 


CAVE  OF  STAFFA. 

Thanks  for  the  lessons  of  this  spot, 
fit  school 

For  the  presumptuous  thoughts  that 
would  assign 

Mechanic  laws  to  agency  divine, 

And,  measuring  heaven  by  earth, 
would  overrule 

Infinite  power.  The  pillared  vesti- 
bule, 

Expanding  yet  precise,  the  roof  em- 
bowed, 

Might  seem  designed  to  humble 
man,  when  proud 

Of  his  best  workmanship  by  plan 
and  tool. 

Down-bearing  with  his  whole  Atlan- 
tic weight 

Of  tide  and  tempest  on  the  struc- 
ture's base, 

And  flashing  upwards  to  its  topmost 
height, 

Ocean  has  proved  its  strength,  and 
of  its  grace 

In  calms  is  conscious,  finding  for  his 
freight 

Of  softest  music  some  responsive 
place. 

WOBDSWOKTH. 


FLOWERS  ON  THE  TOP  OF 
THE  PILLARS  AT  THE  EN- 
TRANCE OF  THE  CAVE. 

Hope    smiled   when   your  nativity 

was  cast, 
Children    of    summer!       Ye   fresh 

flowers  that  brave 
What  summer  here  escapes  not,  the 

fierce  wave, 
And  whole  artillery  of  the  western 

blast. 
Battering    the    temple's    front,    its 

long-drawn  nave 
Smiting,  as   if  each   moment  were 

their  last. 
But  ye,  bright  flowers,  on  frieze  and 

architrave 
Survive,   and  once    again    the    pile 

stands  fast. 
Calm  as  the  universe,  from  specular 

towers 
Of  heaven  contemplated  by  spirits 

pure  — 
Suns  and  their  systems,  diverse  yet 

sustained 


In  symmetry,  and  fashioned  to  en- 
dure, 

Unhurt,  the  assaults  of  time  with  all 
his  hours, 

As  the  supreme  Artificer  ordained. 

WOKDSWORTH. 


THE  STORM. 

The  sky  is   changed;    and  such 

a  change !    O  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are 

wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is 

the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !  Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling 

crags  among, 
Leaps  tlie  live  thunder !    Not  from 

one  lone  cloud. 
But    every    mountain    now    hath 

found  a  tongue. 
And  Jura    answers,  through  her 

misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to 

her  aloud ! 

BYROIf. 


SUNSET. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not 

night : 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her; 

a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine 

height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains ;  heaven 

is  free 
From    clouds,  but   of   all   colors 

seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  west. 
Where    the    day   joins    the   past 

eternity ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek 

Dian's  crest 
Floats    through  the  azure    air,   an 

island  of  the  blest. 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and 

reigns 
With    her    o'er    half    the    lovely 

heaven ;  but  still 
Yon   sunny  sea  heaves  brightly, 

and  remains 
Rolled  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far 

Rhoetian  hill, 


NATURE. 


43 


As  day  and  night  contending  were 

until 
Nature     reclaimed     her     order: 

gently  flows 
The     deep-dyed    Brenta,     where 

their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born 

rose, 
Which    streams   upon   her  stream, 

and  glassed  within  it  glows, 

Filled  with  the  face  of   heaven, 

which,  from  afar, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters ;  all 

its  hues. 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising 

star. 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse : 
And  now  they  change;    a  paler 

shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er   the   mountains: 

parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each 

pang  imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away. 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till  'tis  gone 

—  and  all  is  gray. 

Bybon. 


MOONLIGHT. 

How  sweet    the   moonlight   sleeps 

upon  this  bank ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds 

of  music 
Creep  in  your  ears:  soft  stillness, 

and  the  night. 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  har- 
mony. 
Sit,  Jessica :  look,  how  the  floor  of 

heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright 

gold: 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which 

thou  behold' St, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still     quiring    to    the    young-ey'd 

cherubims. 

Shakspeabe. 


ODE  TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral 

song, 
May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy 

modest  ear, 


Like  thy  own  brawling  springs, 
Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales ; 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the 

bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy 
skirts, 
With  brede  ethereal  wove, 
O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the 

weak-eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on 
leathern  wing ; 
Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight 

path. 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless 
hum: 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 
To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy 

darkening  vale. 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness 
suit; 
As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 
Thy  genial  loved  return ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star   arising 
shows 

His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  Hours  and  Elves 
Who  slept  in  buds  the  day. 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes 

her  brows  with  sedge. 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and, 
lovelier  still, 
The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and 

healthy  scene ; 
Or  find  some  ruin,  'midst  its  dreary 
dells, 
Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 
By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driv- 
ing rain. 

Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the 
hut. 
That  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods. 


44 


PARNASSUS. 


And  hamlets  brown,  and   dim-dis- 
covered spires ; 
And  hears    their  simple  bell,   and 
marks  o'er  all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veiU 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers, 

as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe    thy  breathing    tresses, 
meekest  Eve ! 
Wliile  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap 

with  leaves ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  trou- 
blous air. 
Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes ; 

So   long,    regardful    of    the    quiet 

rule, 
Shall   Fancy,    Friendship,    Science, 
smiling  Peace, 
Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 
And  love  thy  favorite  name ! 

Collins. 


NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 

Mysterious  Night!  when  our  first 
Parent  knew 

Thee,    from    report    divine,    and 
heard  thy  name. 

Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely 
Frame, 

This  glorious  canopy  of  Light  and 
Blue? 
Yet  *neath  a  curtain  of  translucent 
dew, 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  set- 
ting Flame, 

Hesperus  with  the  Host  of  Heaven 
came. 

And  lo !  Creation  widened  on  Man's 
view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  Dark- 
ness lay  concealed 

Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun !  or  who 
could  find, 

Whilst  flower,  and  leaf,  and  insect 
stood  revealed. 

That  to  such  countless  Orba  thou 
mad' St  us  blind  1 


Why  do  we  then  shun  Death  with 
anxious  strife  ? 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  where- 
fore not  Life  ? 

J.  Blanco  White. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Since  the  Sun, 
The  absolute,  the  world-absorbing 

one, 
Relinquished  half  his  empire  to  the 

host 
Emboldened  by  thy  guidance,  holy 

star, 
Holy  as  princely,  who  that  looks  on 

thee. 
Touching,  as  now,  in  thy  humility 
The  mountain  borders  of  this  seat 

of  care. 
Can  question  that  thy  countenance 

is  bright. 
Celestial  power,  as  much  with  love 

as  light? 

WOBDSWOBTH* 


SONG  OF  THE  STARS. 

When  the  radiant  morn  of  creation 

broke, 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God 

awoke. 
And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness 

and  death 
Were  moved  through  their  depths 

by  his  mighty  breath, 
And  orbs  of  beauty  and  spheres  of 

flame 
From   the  void   abyss   by  myriads 

came,  — 
In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted 

away. 
Through   the  widening  wastes   of 

space  to  play. 
Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rung. 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones 

sung. 

"Away,  away,  through  the  wide, 

wide  sky,  — 
The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us 

lie,  — 
Each  sun  with  the  worlds  that  round 

him  roll. 
Each  planet  poised  on  her  turning 

pole; 


NATUBE. 


45 


With  her  isles  of   green    and   her 

clouds  of  white, 
And  her  waters   that  lie   like  fluid 

light. 

"  For  the  Source  of  Glory  uncovers 
his  face, 

And  the  brightness  o'erflows  un- 
bounded space ; 

And  we  drink,  as  we  go,  the  lumi- 
nous tides 

In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming 
sides : 

Lo,    yonder   the    living    splendors 

Away,  on  our  joyous  path,  away ! 

"  Look,  look,  through  our  glittering 
ranks  afar. 

In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 

How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they 
swiftly  pass ! 

How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  roll- 
ing mass ! 

And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is 
seen. 

Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and 
the  young  woods  lean. 

"  And  see,  where  brighter  day-beams 
pour. 

How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny 
shower ; 

And  the  morn  and  eve,  with  their 
pomp  of  hues. 

Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets  and  shed 
their  dews ; 

And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teem- 
ing ground, 

With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night 
goes  round ! 

"Away,  away!    in  our  blossoming 

bowers, 
In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres 

of  ours. 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine 

with  morn, 
See,  love  is  brooding,  and  life  is  born. 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking 

from  night, 
To  rejoice  like  us,  in  motion  and 

light. 

"  Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youth- 
ful spheres. 

To  weave  the  dance  that  measures 
the  years ; 


Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness 
sent. 

To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firma- 
ment, — 

The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 

To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  your  lamps 
are  dim." 

Bryant. 


THE  MILKY  WAY. 

"  Lo,"  quoth  he,  "  cast  up  thine 
eye. 
See  yonder,  lo  I  the  galaxie. 
The  which  men  clepe  the  Milky  Way, 
For  it  is  white ;  and  some  parf ay 
Callen  it  Watling  streete. 
That  once  was  brent  with  the  hete, 
When  the  Sunne's  sonne  the  rede, 
That  ^ight  Phaeton,  would  lead 
Algate  his  father's  cart,  and  gie.* 

"  The  cart  horses  gan  well  aspie, 
That  he  could  no  governaunce. 
And  gan  for  to  leape  and  praunce, 
And  bear  him  up,  and  now  down, 
Till  he  saw  the  Scorpioun, 
Which  that  in  Heaven  a  signe  is  yet, 
And  for  fere  lost  his  wit 
Of  that,  and  let  the  reynes  gone 
Of  his  horses,  and  they  anone 
Soone  up  to  mount,  and  downe  de- 
scend. 
Till  both  air  and  Earthe  brend, 
Till  Jupiter,  lo !  at  the  last 
Him  slew,  and  fro  the  carte  cast. 

Chaucer. 

HOPE. 

At  summer  e*^e,  when  heaven's  ae- 
rial bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering 

hills  below. 
Why  to  yon   mountain   turns    the 

musing  eye. 
Whose  sunbright   summit   mingles 

with  the  sky  ? 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint 

appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape 

smiling  near  ?  — 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to 

the  view. 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure 

hue. 

Campbell, 
*  Guide. 


46 


PARNASSUS. 


TO  THE  RAINBOW. 

Triumphal  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky 
When  storms  prepare  to  part, 

I  ask  not  proud  philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art. 

Still  seem  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given, 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  optics  teach  unfold 
Thy  form  to  please  me  so, 

As  when  I  dreamed  of  gems  and 
gold 
Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow? 

And    yet,    fair    how,    no    fabling 
dreams, 
But  words  of  the  Most  High, 
Have    told  why  first  thy   robe   of 
beams 
Was  woven  in  the  sky. 

When   o'er   the   green,    undeluged 
earth 
Heaven's    covenant     thou    didst 
shine, 
How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers 
forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  I 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 
O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 

Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 
To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep, 
The  first-made  anthem  rang 

On  earth,  delivered  from  the  deep, 
And  the  first  poet  sang. 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields. 
The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 

When,  glittering   in  the  freshened 
fields, 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
O'er  mountain,  tower,  and  town. 

Or  mirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 
A  thousand  fathoms  down ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 
As  young  thy  beauties  seem. 

As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam. 


For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page. 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span ; 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age. 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 

Campbell. 


THE   RAINBOW. 

Now  overhead  a  rainbow,  bursting 
through 
The  scattering  clouds,  shone,  span- 
ning the  dark  sea. 

Resting  its  bright  base  on  the  quiv- 
ering blue ; 
And  all  within  its  arch  appeared 
to  be 

Clearer  than  that  without;  and  its 
wide  hue 
Waxed  broad  and  waving,  like  a 
banner  free, 

Then  changed  like  to  a  bow  that's 
bent,  and  then 

Forsook  the  dim  eyes  of  those  ship- 
wrecked men. 

It  changed,  of  course;  a  heavenly 
chameleon, 
The  airy  child  of  vapor  and  the 
sun, 
Brought  forth  in  purple,  cradled  in 
vermilion. 
Baptized    in    molten    gold,     and 
swathed  in  dun. 
Glittering  like  crescents  o'er  a  Turk's 
pavilion. 
And  blending  every  color  into  one. 
Byron. 


THE  CLOUD. 

I  SIFT  the  snow  on  the  mountains 
below. 
And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis   my  pillow 
white, 
While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the 
blast. 

That  orb^d  maiden,  with  white  fire 
laden. 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides    glimmering  o'er  my  fleece- 
like floor. 
By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen 
feet, 


NATURE. 


47 


Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my 
tent's  thin  roof, 
The  stars  peep  behind   her  and 
peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and 
flee, 
Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind- 
built  tent. 
Till  the  calm   rivers,   lakes,  and 
seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through 
me  on  high 
Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and 
these. 

I  am  the    daughter  of   earth   and 
water. 
And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 
I  pass  through    the    pores    of    the 
ocean  and  shores ; 
I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never 
a  stain. 
The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with 
their  convex  gleams. 
Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a 
ghost  from  the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

Shelley. 


A  DROP  OF  DEW. 

See  how  the  orient  dew, 
Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 
Into  the  blowing  roses, 
(Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new, 
For  the  clear  region  where    'twas 
born,) 
Round  in  itself  encloses 
And,  in  its  little  globe's  extent. 
Frames,  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 
How  it  the   purple    flower    does 
slight, 
Scarce  touching  where  it  lies", 
But  gazing  back  upon  the  skies, 
Shines  with  a  mournful  light, 
Like  its  own  tear. 
Because  so  long  divided  from  the 
sphere. 
Restless  it  rolls,  and  insecure, 
Trembling,  lest  it  grow  impure ; 


Till  the  warm  sun  pities  its  pain, 
And  to  the  skies  exhales  it  back 
again. 

So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray. 
Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal 

day, 
Could  it  within  the  human  flower 
be  seen. 
Remembering    still   its    former 
height, 
Shuns  the  sweet  leaves,  and  blos- 
soms green. 
And,  recollecting  its  own  light, 
Does,    in    its     pure    and    circling 

thoughts,  express 
The  greater  heaven  in  a  heaven  less. 
In  how  coy  a  figure  wound, 
Every  way  it  turns  away, 
So  the  world  excluding  round, 
Yet  receiving  in  the  day. 
Dark  beneath,  but  bright  above, 
Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 
How  loose  and  easy  hence  to  go ; 
How  girt  and  ready  to  ascend ; 
Moving  but  on  a  point  below. 
It  all  about  does  upwards  bend. 
Such  did  the  mamia's  sacred  dew  dis- 
til. 
White  and  entire,  although  congealed 

and  chill ; 
Congealed  on  earth;  but  does,  dis- 
solving, run 
Into  the  glories  of  the  almighty  sun._ 
Makvell. 


SMOKE. 

Light-winged  Smoke !  Icarian  bird, 
Melting  thy  pinions  in  thy  upward 

flight; 
Lark  without  song,  and  messenger 

of  dawn. 
Circling  above  the  hamlets  as  thy 

nest; 
Or  else,  departing  dream,  and  shad- 
owy form 
Of  midnight  vision,  gathering  up  thy 

skirts ; 
By  night  star-veiling,  and  by  day 
Darkening  the  light  and  blotting  out 

the  sun ; 
Go  thou,  my  incense,  upward  from 

this  hearth, 
And  ask  the  gods  to  pardon  this  clear 

flame. 

Thoeeau. 


48 


PARNASSUS. 


MIST. 

Low- ANCHORED  Cloud, 

Newfoundland  air, 

Fountain-head  and  source  of  rivers, 

Dew-cloth,  dream-drapeiy, 

And  napkin  spread  by  fays ; 

Drifting  meadow  of  the  air, 

Where  bloom  the  daisied  banks  and 

violets. 
And  in  whose  fenny  labyrinth 
The  bittern  booms  and  heron  wades ; 
Spirit  of  lakes  and  seas  and  rivers,  — 
Bear  only  perfumes  and  the  scent 
Of  healing  herbs  to  just  men's  fields. 
Thobeau. 


HAZE. 

Woof  of  the  fen,  ethereal  gauze. 
Woven  of  Nature's  richest  stuffs, 
Visible  heat,  air-water,  and  dry  sea, 
Last  conquest  of  the  eye ; 
Toil  of  the  day  displayed,  sun-dust. 
Aerial  surf  upon  the  shores  of  earth, 
Ethereal  estuary,  frith  of  light, 
Breakers  of  air,  billows  of  heat, 
Fine  summer  spray  on  inland  seas ; 
Bird  of  the  sun,  transparent-winged. 
Owlet  of  noon,  soft-pinioned. 
From  heath  or  stubble  rising  without 

song,  — 
Establish  thy  serenity  o'er  the  fields. 
Thoreau. 


AT  SEA. 

The  night  is  made  for  cooling  shade. 
For  silence,  and  for  sleep ; 


And  when  I  was  a  child,  I  laid 

My  hands  upon  my  breast,  and  prayed, 

And  sank  to  slumbers  deep : 
Childlike  as  then  I  lie  to-night, 
And  watch  my  lonely  cabin-light. 

Each  movement  of  the  swaying  lamp 

Shows  how  the  vessel  reels : 
As  o'er  her  deck  the  billows  tramp, 
And  all  her  timbers  strain  and  cramp 

With  every  shock  she  feels. 
It  starts  and  shudders,  while  it  burns, 
And  in  its  hinged  socket  turns. 

Now  swinging  slow  and  slanting  low, 

It  almost  level  lies ; 
And  yet  I  know,  while  to  and  fro 
I  watch  the  seeming  pendule  go 

With  restless  fall  and  rise. 
The  steady  shaft  is  still  upright, 
Poising  its  little  globe  of  light. 

0  hand  of  God !    O  lamp  of  peace ! 
O  promise  of  my  soul ! 

Though  weak,  and  tossed,  and  ill  at 

ease. 
Amid  the  roar  of  smiting  seas. 
The  ship's  convulsive  roll, 

1  own  with  love  and  tender  awe 
Yon  perfect  type  of  faith  and  law. 

A  heavenly  trust  my  spirit  calms. 

My  soul  is  filled  with  light : 
The  Ocean  sings  his  solemn  psalms. 
The  wild  winds  chant:  I  cross  my 
palms, 
Happy  as  if  to-night 
Under  the  cottage  roof  again 
I  heard  the  soothing  summer  rain. 
J.  T.  Trowbridge. 


n. 
HUMAN  LIFE. 

HOME.  —  WOMAN.  —  LOVE.  —  FRIENDSHIP. 
MANNERS.  —  BEAUTY. 


**The  privates  of  man's  heart — 
They  speken  and  sound  in  his  ear 
As  though  they  loud  winds  were."  —  QoWEB. 


HUMAI^   LIFE. 


HOME. 

'Tis  not  in  battles  that  from  youth 

we  train 
The  governor  who  must  be  wise  and 

good, 
And  temper  with  the  sternness  of 

the  brain 
Thoughts  motherly,  and   meek    as 

womanhood. 
Wisdom    doth    live    with    children 

round  her  knees : 
Books,  leisure,  perfect  freedom,  and 

the  talk 
Man  holds  with  week-day  man  in  the 

hourly  walk 
Of  the  mind's  business:  these  are 

the  degrees 
By  which  true  Sway  doth  mount; 

this  is  the  stalk 
True  Power  doth  grow  on ;  and  her 

rights  are  these. 

WOBDSWORTH. 


TO  CORINNE. 

Happy,  happier  far  than  thou 
With  the  laurel  on  thy  brow, 
She  that  makes  the  humblest  hearth 
Lovely  but  to  one  on  earth! 

Hemans. 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  EUROPE. 

Bright  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast. 

Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue ; 

Let  star  and  stripe  be  westward  cast. 

And    point   as    Freedom's    eagle 

flew! 

Strain  home !    O  lithe  and  quivering 

spars ! 
Point  home,  my  country's  flag  of 
stars  I 


My  mother,  in  thy  prayer  to-night 
There  come  new  words  and  warm- 
er tears ; 
On  long,  long  darkness  breaks  the 
light. 
Comes  home  the  loved,  the  lost  for 
years. 
Sleep  safe,  O  wave-worn  mariner ! 

Fear  not  to-night,  or  storm  or  sea: 
The  ear  of   Heaven  bends  low  to 
her! 
He  comes  to  shore  who  sails  with 
me. 
The  wind-tossed    spider  needs    no 
token 
How  stands  the  tree  when  light- 
nings blaze ; 
And,  by  a  thread  from  heaven  un- 
broken, 
I   know   my   mother    lives    and 
prays. 

N.  P.  Willis. 


THE  LAST  FAREWELL. 

Farewell,  ye  lofty  spires 
That  cheered  the  holy  light  I 
Farewell,  domestic  fires 
That  broke  the  gloom  of  night ! 
Too  soon  these  spires  are  lost, 
Too  fast  we  leave  the  bay, 
Too  soon  by  ocean  tost 
From  hearth  and  home  away. 

Far  away,  far  away. 

Farewell,  the  busy  town. 
The  wealthy  and  the  wise. 
Kind  smile  and  honest  frown 
From  bright,  familiar  eyes. 
All  these  are  fading  now ; 
Our  brig  hastes  on  her  way ; 
Her  unremembering  prow 
Is  leaping  o'er  the  sea. 

Far  away,  far  away. 
61 


62 


PARNASSUS. 


Farewell,  my  mother  fond, 
Too  kind,  too  good  to  me, 
Nor  pearl,  nor  diamond 
Would  pay  my  debt  to  thee ; 
But  even  thy  kiss  denies 
Upon  my  cheek  to  stay. 
The  winged  vessel  flies, 
And  billows  round  her  play, 

Far  away,  far  away. 

Farewell,  my  brothers  true. 
My  betters,  yet  my  peers. 
How  desert  without  you 
My  few  and  evil  years ! 
But  though  aye  one  in  heart, 
Together  sad  or  gay. 
Rude  ocean  doth  us  part, 
We  separate  to-day. 

Far  away,  far  away. 

Farewell  I  breathe  again 
To  dim  New  England's  shore: 
My  heart  shall  beat  not  when 
I  pant  for  thee  no  more. 
In  yon  green  palmy  isle, 
Beneath  the  tropic  ray, 
I  murmur  never  while 
For  thee  and  thine  I  pray : 

Far  away,  far  away. 
Emekson. 


MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

My  mother,  when  I  learned  that 
thou  wast  dead, 

Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the 
tears  I  shed  ? 

Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrow- 
ing son,  — 

Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey 
just  begun  ? 

I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial- 
day; 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow 
away; 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery-win- 
dow, drew 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last 
adieu  I 

But  was  it  such?  It  was.  Where 
thou  art  gone, 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound 
unknown ; 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful 
shore, 


The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips 
no  more. 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at 
my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick 
return : 

What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  be- 
lieved, 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  de- 
ceived, — 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 

Dupe  of  tomorrow  even  from  a 
child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  tomorrow  came 
and  went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows 
spent, 

I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my 
lot; 

But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee, 
ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt,  our  name  is 
heard  no  more ; 

Children  not  thine  have  trod  my 
nursery  floor ; 

And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day 
by  day, 

Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public 
way,— 

Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach, 
and  wrapped 

In  scarlet  mantle  waim,  and  velvet 
cap,  — 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  re- 
store the  hours 

When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tis- 
sued flowers,  — 

The  violet,  the  pink,  the  jessa- 
mine, — 

I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a 
pin, 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself 
the  while  — 

Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my 
head,  and  smile,) 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again 
appear, 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I 
wish  them  here  ? 

But  no !  What  here  we  call  our  life  is 
such. 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so 
much. 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  con- 
strain 

Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds 
again. 

COWPEB. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


IF  THOU  WERT  BY  MY  SIDE, 
MY  LOVE. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love. 
How  fast  would  evening  fail. 
In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove, 
Listening  the  nightingale ! 

I   miss    thee,    when,    by    Gunga's 

stream, 
My  twilight  steps  I  guide. 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale 

beam 
I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

But  when  at  morn  and  eve  the  star 
Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
1  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 
Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then    on,    then    on,    where   duty 

leads ! 
My  course  be  onward  still. 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  meads, 
O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That    course    nor    Delhi's   kingly 

gates, 
Nor  mild  Malwah  detain ; 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 
By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright, 

they  say, 
Across  the  dark  blue  sea ; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 
As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  I 

Hebeb. 


THE      COTTER'S      SATURDAY 
NIGHT. 


NoYEMBEB  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  an- 
gry sugh; 
The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near 
a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the 
pleugh ; 
The  black' ning  trains  o'  craws  to 
their  repose ; 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labor 
goes, 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at 
an  end, 
Collects   his    spades,  his  mattocks, 
aud  his  hoes, 


Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest 
to  spend. 
And    weary,    o'er    the    moor,    his 
course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in 
view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged 
tree; 
Th'   expectant    wee-things,  toddlin 
stacher  thro'. 
To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'   flichterin 
noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily, 
His  clane  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie 
wifie's  smile. 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his 
knee, 
Does  all  his  weary  carking  cares 
beguile. 
An'    makes    him    quite   forget    his 
labor  an'  his  toil. 


Wi'  joy  unfeign'd  brothers  and  sis- 
ters meet. 
An'  each  for  other's  welfare  kindly 
spiers : 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  un- 
noticed fleet ; 
Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees 
or  hears ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hope- 
ful years. 
Anticipation  forward    points  the 
view. 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  and  her 
shears. 
Gars  auld  claes  look    amaist    as 
weel's  the  new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition 
due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's 
command. 
The  younkers  a'   are  warned  to 
obey; 
And  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent 
hand. 
And  ne'er,  tho'   out  o'   sight,  to 
jauk  or  play : 
"  And,  oh !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord 
alway. 
And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn 
and  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang 
astray, 


64 


PAENASSUS. 


Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting 
might : 
They   never   sought   in   vain    that 
sought  the  Lord  aright ! " 

But,  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to 
the  door ; 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o' 
the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the 
moor. 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy 
her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious 
flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush 
her  cheek ; 
Wi'  heart-struck  anxious    care,  in- 
quires his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to 
speak ; 
Weel  pleas' d  the  mother  hears,  it's 
nae  wild  worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings 
him  ben ; 
A  strappan  youth;   he  takes  the 
mother's  eye; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill 
ta'en ; 
The     father    cracks     of    horses, 
pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'er- 
flows  wi'  joy. 
But,  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can 
weel  behave ; 
The  woman,  wi'   a  woman's  wiles, 
can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu' 
an'  sae  grave ; 
Weel  pleas' d  to  think  her  bairn's  re- 
spected like  the  lave. 

O  happy  love !  where  love  like  this 
is  found ! 
O  heart-felt  raptures !  bliss  beyond 
compare ! 
I've  pacfed  much  this  weary,  mortal 
round, 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this 
declare  — 
'*If  Heav'n  a  draught  of  heav'nly 
pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial   in    this   melancholy 
vale, 
*Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  mod- 
est pair, 


In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the 
tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that 
scents  the  ev'ning  gale ! " 


But  now  the  supper  crowns  their 
simple  board. 
The  halesome   parritch,   chief  o' 
Scotia's  food: 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does 
afford. 
That    'yont    the    hallan    snugly 
chows  her  cood ; 
The  dame   brings  forth  in  compli- 
mental  mood. 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd 
kebbuck,  fell. 
And  aft  he's  prest,  and  aft  he  calls  it 
gude ;  '^ 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will 
tell 
How  'twas  a  towmond   auld,  sin* 
lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

The     cheerful     supper    done,    wi* 
serious  face. 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  cir- 
cle wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal 
grace. 
The     big     ha' -Bible,    ance     his 
father's  pride: 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 
His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an* 
bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in 
Zion  glide. 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious 
care; 
And    "Let  us  worship  God!"    he 
says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes    in 
simple  guise ; 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the 
noblest  aim ; 
Perhaps  "Dundee's"  wild  warbling 
measures  rise, 
Or  plaintive   "Martyrs,"  worthy 
of  the  name ; 
Or  noble  "  Elgin"  beats  the  heav'n- 
ward  flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy 
lays : 
Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills 
are  tame ; 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


55 


The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  rap- 
tures raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Crea- 
tor's praise. 

The    priest-like    father    reads    the 
sacred  page, 
How  Abram  was   the  friend   of 
God  on  high ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  proge- 
ny; 
Or  how  the  royal  Bard  did  groaning 
lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's 
avenging  ire : 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing 
cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the 
sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the 
theme, 
How   guiltless    blood    for    guilty 
man  was  shed ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the 
second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay 
his  head : 
How  his    first    followers    and    ser- 
vants sped ; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote   to 
many  a  land : 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  ban- 
ished. 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel 
stand ; 
And   heard  great  Babylon's  doom 
pronounced  by  Heaven's  com- 
mand. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's 
Eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  hus- 
band prays : 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumph- 
ant wing," 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in 
future  days : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 
No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bit- 
ter tear. 
Together  hymning  their    Creator's 
praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in 
an  eternal  sphere. 


Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  reli- 
gion's pride. 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations 
wide 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the 
heart ! 
The  Power,   incens'd,  the    pageant 
will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdo- 
tal stole ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 
May  hear,  well  pleas'd,   the  lan- 
guage of  the  soul ; 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates 
poor  enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their 
sev'ral  way; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to 
rest: 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage 
pay, 
And    proffer  up   to   Heaven  the 
warm  request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam- 
'rous  nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry 
pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees 
the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones 
provide ; 
But    chiefly   in    their  hearts    with 
grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's 
grandeur  springs. 
That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home, 
rever'd  abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath 
of  kings; 
"An  honest   man's    the    noblest 
work  of  God:" 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly 
road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far 
behind ; 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cum- 
brous load. 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  hu- 
man kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wicked- 
ness refin'd ! 

O  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 
For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to 
Heaven  is  sent ! 


56 


PAENASSUS. 


Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace, 
and  sweet  content ! 
And,  oh,  may  Heaven  their  simple 
lives  prevent 
From    luxury's    contagion,  weak 
and  vile ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets 
be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the 
while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their 
much-lov'd  isle. 

O  Thou!  who  pour'd  the  patriotic 
tide 
That  stream' d  thro'  Wallace's  un- 
daunted heart ; 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic 
pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious 
part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou 
art. 
His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and 
reward ! ) 
O  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert; 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  pa- 
triot-bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  orna- 
ment and  guard ! 

Burns. 


THE  BABE. 

Naked  on  parents'  knees,  a  newborn 

child, 
Weeping  thou  sat'st  when  all  around 

thee  smiled : 
So  live,  that,  sinking  to  thy  last  long 

sleep. 
Thou   then  mayst  smile  while  all 

around  thee  weep. 

Sir  William  Jones: 
Translated  from  Calidasa. 


THE  WOOD-FIRE. 

This  bright  wood-fire, 
So  like  to  that  which  warmed  and 
lit 
My  youthful  days,  —  how  doth  it 

flit 
Back  on  the  periods  nigher ! 
Ke-lighting  and  re-wanning  with  its 
glow 


The  bright  scenes  of  my  youth,  —  all 
gone  out  now. 

How  eagerly  its  flickering  blaze  doth 
catch 

On    every  point   now  wrapped    in 
time's  deep  shade! 

Into  what  wild  grotesqueness  by  its 
flash 

And  fitful  checkering  is  the  picture 
made! 
When  I  am  glad  or  gay. 

Let  me  walk  forth  into  the  brilliant 
sun. 

And  with  congenial  rays  be  shone 
upon : 

When    I    am    sad,    or   thought-be- 
witched would  be. 

Let  me  glide  forth  in  moonlight's 
mystery, 

But  never,  while  I  live  this  change- 
ful life, 

This  past  and  future  with  all  won- 
ders rife, 

Never,  bright  flame,  may  be  denied 
to  me 

Thy  dear,  life-imaging,  close  sympa- 
thy. 

What  but  my  hopes  shot  upwards 
e'er  so  bright? 

What  but  my  fortunes  sank  so  low 
in  night  ? 

Why  art  thou  banished  from   our 
hearth  and  hall. 

Thou  who  art  welcomed  and  beloved 
by  all  ? 

Was  thy  existence  then  too  fanciful 

For  our  life's  common  light,  who  are 
so  dull  ? 

Did    thy  bright    gleam    mysterious 
converse  hold 

With  our  congenial  souls?    secrets 
too  bold  ? 

Well,  we  are  safe  and  strong ;  for  now 
we  sit 

Beside  a  hearth  where  no  dim  sha- 
dows flit ; 

Where  nothing  cheers  nor  saddens, 
but  a  fire 

Warms  feet  and  hands,  nor  does  to 
more  aspire; 

By  whose  compact,  utilitarian  heap. 

The  present  may  sit  down  and  go  to 
sleep, 

Nor  fear  the  ghosts  who  from  the  dim 
past  walked. 

And  with  us  by  the  unequal  light  of 
the  old  wood-tire  talked. 

E.  S.  H. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


67 


GIVE  ME  THE  OLD. 


Old  wine  to  drink ! 
Ay,  give  the  slippery  juice 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown 
loose 
Within  the  tun ; 
Plucked  from  beneath  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Tenerifte, 

And  ripened  'neath  the  blink 
Of  India's  sun! 
Peat  whiskey  hot, 
Tempered  with  well-boiled  water ! 
These  make  the  long  night  shorter, 

Forgetting  not 
Good  stout  old  English  porter. 


n. 


Old  wood  to  burn ! — 
Ay,  bring  the  hillside  beech 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and 
screech, 
And  ravens  croak ; 
The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet ; 
Bring  too  a  clump  of  fragrant  peat, 
Dug  'neath  the  fern; 
The  knotted  oak, 
A  fagot  too,  perhap. 
Whose  bright  flame,  dancing,  wink- 
ing, 
Shall  light  us  at  our  drinking ; 

While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  think- 
ing. 


in. 


Old  books  to  read ! 
Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit. 
The  brazen-clasped,  the  vellum-writ, 

Time-honored  tomes ! 
The  same  my  sire  scanned  before, 
The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o'er, 
The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore. 
The  well-earned  meed 
Of  Oxford's  domes: 
Old  Homer  blind. 
Old  Horace,  rake  Anacreon,  by 
Old  Tully,  Plautus,  Terence  lie ; 
Mort  Arthurs  olden  minstrelsie. 
Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay ! 
And  Gervase  Markhani's  venerie  — 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  Holy  Book  by  which  we  live 
and  die. 


lY. 

Old  friends  to  talk ! 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 
The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found ; 
Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud, 
Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 
In  mountain  walk ! 
Bring  Walter  good : 
With  soulful  Fred;  and  learned  Will, 
And  thee,  my  alter  ego,  (dearer  still 
For  every  mood). 

R.  H.  Messingeb. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

I  WOULD  that  thou  might  always  be 

As  innocent  as  now. 

That  time  might  ever  leave  as  free 

Thy  yet  unwritten  brow. 

I  would  life  were  all  poetry 

To  gentle  measure  set, 

That  nought  but  chastened  melody 

Might  stain  thine  eye  of  jet, 

Nor  one  discordant  note  be  spoken. 

Till  God  the  cunning  harp  had  broken. 
I  fear  thy  gentle  loveliness, 
Thy  witching  tone  and  air. 
Thine  eye's  beseeching  earnestness 
May  be  to  thee  a  snare. 
The  silver  stars  may  purely  shine, 
The  waters  taintless  flow ; 
But  they  who  kneel  at  woman's 

shrine 
Breathe  on  it  as  they  bow. 

N.  P.  Willis. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to 
lower. 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupa- 
tions 
That  is  known  as  the  children's 
hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet. 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened. 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamp- 
light. 
Descending  the  broad  hall-stair, 


58 


PARNASSUS. 


Grave  Alice  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence ; 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They    are    plotting     and    planning 
together 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall : 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall. 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 
O'er  the  arms  and  back  of   my 
chair ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me : 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

Tliey  almost  devour  me  with  kisses ; 

Their  arms  about  me  intwine, 
Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 

In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti ! 

Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 
Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 

Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeons 
In  the  Round  Tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever,  — 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day. 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin. 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 

Longfellow. 


WOMAN. 

There    in    the   fane   a   beauteous 

creature  stands. 
The  first  best  work  of  the  Creator's 

hands, 
Wliose    slender  limbs  inadequately 

bear 
A  full-orbed  bosom  and  a  weight  of 

care; 
Whose  teeth  like  pearls,  whose  lips 

like  cherries,  show. 
And  fawn-like  eyes  still  tremble  as 

they  glow. 

John  Wilson  : 
Tranalaiedfrom  Calidasa. 


TO  SILYIA. 

I  AM  holy  while  I  stand 

Circum-crost  by  thy  pure  hand ; 
But  when  that  is  gone,  again 

I,  as  others,  am  profane. 

Herrick. 


THE  ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD. 


Lo,  when  the  Lord  made  north  and 
south. 
And  sun  and  moon  ordained,  he. 
Forth    bringing    each  by  word    of 
mouth 
In  order  of  its  dignity. 
Did  man  from  the  crude  clay  express 
By  sequence,  and,  all  else  decreed, 
He  formed  the  woman;   nor  might 
less 
Than  Sabbath  such  a  work  suc- 
ceed. 


II. 


And  still  with  favor  singled  out, 

Marred  less  than  man  by  mortal 
fall. 
Her  disposition  is  devout. 

Her  countenance  angelical. 
No    faithless    thought   her  instinct 
shrouds. 

But  fancy  checkers  settled  sense. 
Like  alteration  of  the  clouds 

On  noonday's  azure  permanence. 
Pure  courtesy,  composure,  ease. 

Declare  affections  nobly  fixed. 
And  impulse  sprung  from  due  de- 
grees 

Of  sense  and  spirit  sweetly  mixed. 
Her  modesty,  her  chiefest  grace, 

The  cestus  clasping  Venus'  side, 
Is  potent  to  deject  the  face 

Of  him  who  would  affront  its  pride. 
Wrong   dares  not  in  her  presence 
speak, 

Nor  spotted  thought  its  taint  dis- 
close 
Under  the  protest  of  a  cheek 

Outbragging   Nature's  boast,   the 
rose. 
In  mind  and  manners  how  discreet  I 

How  artless  in  her  very  art ! 
How  candid  in  discourse !  how  sweet 

The  concord  of  her  lips  and  heart  I 


HUMA2^  LIFE. 


69 


How  (not  to  call  true  instinct's  bent 
And  woman's  very  nature  harm), 
How  amiable  and  innocent 
Her    pleasure    in    her    power    to 
charm ! 
How  humbly  careful  to  attract, 
Though  crowned  with  all  the  soul 
desires, 
Connubial  aptitude  exact, 
Diversity  that  never  tires ! 

Coventry  Patmobe. 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of    cloudless    climes    and    starry 
skies ; 
And  all  that's    best   of   dark    and 
bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 
Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,   one  ray  the 
less, 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless 
grace 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face. 
Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  ex- 
press 
How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwell- 
ing-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,   and  o'er  that 
brow. 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that 
glow, 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

Byron. 


ANATHEMATA. 

"O  maiden!   come  into  port  bravely,  or 
sail  with  God  the  seas." 

With  joys  unknown,  with  sadness 
unconfessed, 

The  generous  heart  accepts  the  pass- 
ing year. 

Finds  duties  dear,  and  labor  sweet  as 
rest, 

And  for  itself  knows  neither  care 
nor  fear. 


Fresh  as  the  morning,  earnest  as  the 
hour 

That  calls  the  noisy  world  to  grate- 
ful sleep, 

Our  silent  thotfght  reveres  the  name- 
less power 

That  high  seclusion  round  thy  life 
doth  keep : 

So  feigned  the  poets,  did  Diana  love 

To  smile  upon  her  darlings  while 
they  slept ; 

Serene,  untouched,  and  walking  far 
above 

The  narrow  ways  wherein  the  many 
crept, 

Along  her  lonely  path  of  luminous  air 

She  glided,  of  her  brightness  un- 
aware. 

Yet  if  they  said  she  heeded  not  the 
hymn 

Of  shepherds  gazing  heavenward 
from  the  moor ; 

Or  homeward  sailors,  when  the  wa- 
ters dim 

Flashed  with  long  splendors,  widen- 
ing toward  the  shore ; 

Nor  wondering  eyes  of  children  cared 
to  see ; 

Or  glowing  face  of  happy  lover,  up- 
turned, 

As  late  he  wended  from  the  trysting- 
tree. 

Lit  by  the  kindly  lamp  in  heaven 
that  burned ; 

And  heard  unmoved  the  prayer  of 
wakeful  pain. 

Or  consecrated  maiden's  holy  vow,  — 

Believe  them  not:  they  sing  the 
song  in  vain ; 

For  so  it  never  was,  and  is  not  now. 

Her  heart  was  gentle  as  her  face  was 
fair, 

With  grace  and  love  and  pity  dwell- 
ing there. 

F.  B.  Sanborn. 


HONORIA. 

I   WATCHED   her   face,    suspecting 
germs 
Of  love:  her  farewell  showed  me 
plain 
She  loved,  on  the  majestic  terms 

That  she  should  not  be  loved  again. 
She  was  all  mildness ;  yet  t'was  writ 
Upon  her  beauty  legibly, 


60 


PARNASSUS. 


**  He  that's  for  heaven  itself  unfit, 
Let  him  not  hope  to  merit  me." 


And  though  her  charms  are  a  strong 
law 

Compelling  all  men  to  admire, 
They  are  so  clad  with  lovely  awe, 

None  but  the  noble  dares  desire. 

He  who  would  seek  to  make  her  his, 
Will  comprehend    that   souls    of 
grace 

Own  sweet  repulsion,  and  that  'tis 
The  quality  of  their  embrace 

To  be  like  the  majestic  reach 
Of  coupled  suns,  that,  from  afar. 

Mingle  their  mutual  spheres,  while 
each 
Circles  the  twin  obsequious  star : 

And  in  the  warmth  of  hand  to  hand, 
Of  heart  to  heart,  he'll  vow  to  note 

And  reverently  understand 
How  the  two  spirits  shine  remote ; 

And  ne'er  to  numb  fine  honor's  nerve. 
Nor  let  sweet  awe  in  passion  melt, 

Nor  fail  by  courtesies  to  observe 
The  space  which  makes  attraction 
felt; 

Nor  cease  to  guard  like  life  the  sense 
Which  tells  him  that  the  embrace 
of  love 
Is  o'er  a  gulf  of  difference 
Love  cannot  sound,  nor  death  re- 
move. 

Coventry  Patmore. 


DUCHESSE  BLANCHE. 

It  happed  that  I  came  on  a  day 
Into  a  place,  there  that  I  say. 
Truly  the  fairest  companey 
Of  ladles  that  ever  man  with  eye 
Had  seen  together  in  one  place,  — 
Shall  I  clepe  it  hap  or  grace? 
Among  these  ladies  thus  each  one 
Sooth  to  say  I  saw  one 
That  was  like  none  of  the  rout. 
For  I  dare  swear  without  doubt, 
That  as  the  summer's  Sunne  bright 
Is  fairer,  clearer,  and  hath  more  light 


Than  any  other  planet  in  Heaven,     f 
The  moone,  or  the  starres  seven, 
For  all  the  world,  so  had  she 
Surmounten  them  all  of  beauty, 
Of  manner,  and  of  comeliness. 
Of  stature,  and  of  well  set  gladnesse, 
Of  goodly  heed,  and  so  well  besey,i  — 
Shortly  what  shall  I  more  say. 
By  God,  and  by  his  holowes^  twelve, 
It  was  my  sweet,  right  all  herselve. 
She  had  so  stedfast  countenance 
In  noble  port  and  maintenance. 
And  Love  that  well  harde  my  bone^ 
Had  espied  me  thus  soone. 
That  she  full  soone  in  my  thought 
As,  help  me  God,  so  was  I  caught 
So  suddenly  that  I  ne  took 
No  manner  counsel  but  at  her  look, 
And  at  my  heart  for  why  her  eyen 
So  gladly  I  trow  mine  heart,  seyen 
That  purely  then  mine  own  thought 
Said,  'Twere  better  to  serve  her  for 

nought 
Than  with  another  to  be  well. 

I  saw  her  dance  so  comely, 
Carol  and  sing  so  swetely. 
Laugh  and  play  so  womanly. 
And  look  so  debonairly. 
So  goodly  speak,  and  so  friendly, 
That  certes  I  trow  that  evermore 
N'as  seen  so  blissful  a  treasore, 
For  every  hair  on  her  head. 
Sooth  to  say,  it  was  not  red. 
Nor  neither  yellow  nor  brown  it  n'as, 
Methought  most  like  gold  it  was. 
And  such  eyen  my  lady  had, 
Debonnaire,  good,  glad,  and  sad. 
Simple,  of  good  mokel,*  not  too  wide, 
Thereto  her  look  was  not  aside. 
Nor  overtwhart,  but  beset  so  well 
It  drew  and  took  up  every  dell. 
All  that  on  her  'gan  behold 
Her  eyen  seemed  anon  she  would 
Have  mercy,  —  folly  wenden  ^  so. 
But  it  was  never  the  rather  do. 
It  was  no  counterfeited  thing 
It  was  her  own  pure  looking 
That  the  goddess  Dame  Nature 
Had  made  them  open  by  measure 
And  close;  for,  were  she  never  so 

glad 
Her  looking  was  not  foolish  sprad  ^ 
Nor  wildly,  though  that  she  played ; 
But  ever  methought  her  eyen  said 


1  Beseeu,  appearing. 

»  Saints. 

'  Boon,  petition. 


♦  Quantity. 
B  Thought. 

•  Spread. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


6\ 


By  God  my  wrath  is  all  forgive. 
Therewith  her  list  so  well  to  live, 
That  dulness  was  of  her  adrad, 
She  n'as  too  sober  ue  too  glad; 
In  all  thinges  more  measure 
Had  never  I  trowe  creature, 
But  many  one  with  her  look  she  hurt, 
And  that  sat  her  full  little  at  herte : 
For    she    knew   nothing   of    their 

thought, 
But  whether  she  knew,  or  knew  it  not, 
Alway  she  ne  cared  for  them  a  stree ;  ^ 
To  get  her  love  no  near  n'as  he 
That  woned  "^  at  home,  than  he  in  Inde, 
The  foremost  was  alway  behinde ; 
But  good  folk  over  all  other 
She  loved  as  man  may  his  brother, 
Of  which  love  she  was  wonder  large, 
In  skilful  places  that  bear  charge : 
But  what  a  visage  had  she  thereto, 
Alas !  my  heart  is  wonder  wo 
That  I  not  can  describen  it ;  — 
Me  lacketh  both  English  and  wit 
For  to  undo  it  at  the  full. 
And  eke  my  spirits  be  so  dull 
So  great  a  thing  for  to  devise, 
I  have  not  wit  that  can  suffice 
To  comprehend  her  beaute, 
But  thus  much  I  dare  saine,  that  she 
Was  white,  ruddy,  fresh,  and  lifely 

hued, 
And  every  day  her  beauty  newed. 
And  nigh  her  face  was  alderbest ;  ^ 
For,  certes.  Nature  had  such  lesr 
To  make  that  fair,  that  truly  she 
Was  her  chief  patron  of  beaute'. 
And  chief  example  of  all  her  worke 
And  moulter  -A  for,  be  it  never  so  derke, 
Methinks  I  see  her  evermo. 
And  yet,  moreover,  though  all  tho 
That  ever  lived  were  now  alive. 
Not  would  have  founde  to  descrive 
In  all  her  face  a  wicked  sign,  — 
For  it  was  sad,  simple,  and  benign. 
And  such  a  goodly  sweet  speech 
Had  that  sweet,  my  life's  leech. 
So  friendly,  and  so  well  y-grounded 
Upon  all  reason,  so  well  founded. 
And  so  treatable  to  all  good. 
That  I  dare  swear  well  by  the  rood, 
Of  eloquence  was  never  found 
So  sweet  a  sounding  faconde,^ 
Nor  truer  tongued  nor  scorned  less, 
Nor  bet  6  could  heal,  that,  by  the  Mass 
I  durst  swear,  though  the  Pope  it  sung, 


1  Straw. 

2  Lived. 

3  Best  of  aU. 


*  Monster. 
6  Eloquence. 
6  Better. 


There    was  never  yet  through  her 

tongue 
Man  or  woman  greatly  harmed 
As  for  her  was  all  harm  hid, 
No  lassie  flattering  in  her  worde, 
That,  purely,  her  simple  record 
Was  found  as  true  as  any  bond, 
Or  truth  of  any  man'es  hand. 

Her  throat,  as  I  have  now  memory. 
Seemed  as  a  round  tower  of  ivory. 
Of  good  greatness,  and  not  too  great, 
And  fair  white  she  hete ' 
That  was  my  lady's  name  right. 
She  was  thereto  fair  and  bright, 
She  had  not  her  name  wrong. 
Right  fair  shoulders,  and  body  long 
She  had,  and  armes  ever  lith 
Fattish,  fleshy,  not  great  therewith, 
Right  white  hands  and  nailes  red 
Round  breasts,  and  of  good  brede  ^ 
Her  lippes  were ;  a  straight  flat  back, 
I  knew  on  her  none  other  lack, 
That  all  her  limbs  were  pure  snowing 
In  as  far  as  I  had  knowing. 
Thereto  she  could  so  well  play 
What  that  her  list,  that  I  dare  say 
That  was  like  to  torch  bright 
That  every  man  may  take  of  light 
Enough,  and  it  hath  never  the  less 
Of  manner  and  of  comeliness. 
Right  so  fared  my  lady  dear 
For  every  wight  of  her  mannere 
Might  catch  enough  if  that  he  would 
If  he  had  eyes  her  to  behold 
For  I  dare  swear  well  if  that  she 
Had  among  ten  thousand  be. 
She  would  have  been  at  the  best, 
A  chief  mirror  of  all  the  feast 
Though  they  had  stood  in  a  row 
To  men's  eyen  that  could  know. 
For   whereso    men   had   played  or 

waked, 
Methought  the  fellowship  as  naked 
Without  her,  that  I  saw  once 
As  a  crown  without  stones. 
Truely  she  was  to  mine  eye 
The  solein^  phoenix  of  Araby, 
For  there  liveth  never  but  one, 
Nor  such  as  she  ne  know  I  none. 
To  speak  of  goodness,  truely  she 
Had  as  much  debonnairte 
As  ever  had  Hester  in  the  Bible, 
And  more,  if  more  were  possible ; 
And  sooth  to  say  therewithal 
She  had  a  wit  so  general, 


7  Was  called. 

8  Breadth. 


»Sole. 


62 


PARNASSUS. 


So  well  inclined  to  all  good 
That  all  her  wit  was  set  by  the  rood, 
Without  malice,  upon  gladness, 
And  thereto  I  saw  never  yet  a  less 
Harmful  than  she  was  in  doing. 
I  say  not  that  she  not  had  knowing 
What  harm  was,  or  else  she 
Had  known  no  good,  so  thinketh  me : 
And  truly,  for  to  speak  of  truth 
But  she  had  had,  it  had  been  ruth, 
Therefore  she  had  so  much  her  dell 
And  I  dare  say,  and  swear  it  well 
That  Truth  himself  over  all  and  all 
Had  chose  his  manor  principal 
In  her  that  was  his  resting  place ; 
Thereto  she  had  the  moste  grace 
To  have  stedfast  perseverance 
And  easy  attempre  governance 
That  ever  I  knew  or  wist  yet 
So  pure  suffraunt  was  her  wit. 

Chaucer. 


LUCY. 

■^HREE  years  she  grew  in  sun  and 

shower ; 
Then  Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown ; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  lady  of  my  own. 

*'  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse ;  and  with  me 
The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and 

bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 
To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall 

lend 
To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend : 
Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see. 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm, 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's 

form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 
In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward 

round ; 
And    beauty,  bom    of    murmuring 

sound. 
Shall  pass  into  her  face. 


"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell : 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give, 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Wordsworth. 


LOYE. 

Thou   art   not   gone,  being   gone, 

where'er  thou  art 
Thou  leav'st  in  him  thy  watchful 

eyes,  in  him  thy  loving  heart. 
Donne. 


TRUE  LOVE. 

I  THINK  not  on  my  father, 

And  these  great  tears  grace  his  re- 
membrance more 

Than  those  I  shed  for  him.    What 
was  he  like  ? 

I  have  forgot  him :  my  imagination 

Carries    no    favor  in   it,   but   Ber- 
tram's. 

I  am  undone:    there  is  no  living, 
none. 

If   Bertram  be  away.     It  were  all 
one. 

That  I  should  love  a  bright,  particu- 
lar star. 

And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above 
me: 

In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral 
light 

Must  I  be  comforted,  not   in    his 
sphere. 

The  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues 
itself. 

The  hind  that  would  be  mated  by  the 
lion 

Must  die  for  love.     'Twas  pretty, 
though  a  plague. 

To  see  him  every  hour ;  to  sit  and 
draw 

His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye, 
his  curls. 

In  our  heart's  table ;  heart,  too  capa- 
ble 

Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet 
favor : 

But  now  he's  gone,  and  my  idola- 
trous fancy 

Must  sanctify  iiis  relics. 

Shakspeare. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


63 


THE  QUEEN". 


To  heroism  and  holiness 

How  hard  it  is  for  man  to  soar, 
But  how  much  harder  to  be  less 
Than  what  his  mistress  loves  him 
for! 
He  does  with  ease  what  do  he  must, 
Or  lose  her,  and   there's  nought 
debarred 
From  him  who's  called  to  meet  her 
trust. 
And  credit  her  desired  regard. 
Ah,  wasteful  woman !  she  that  may 
On  her  sweet    self    set  her  own 
price. 
Knowing  he  cannot  choose  but  pay ; 
How  has  she  cheapened  paradise, 
How  given  for  nought  her  priceless 
gift, 
How  spoiled  the  bread,  and  spilled 
the  wine, 
Which,  spent  with  due,  respective 
thrift. 
Had  made  brutes  men,  and  men 
divine. 


n. 


0  queen !  awake  to  thy  renown, 
Require  what  'tis  our  wealth  to 

give. 
And  comprehend  and  wear  the  crown 
Of  thy  despised  prerogative ! 

1  who  in  manhood's  name  at  length 
With  glad  songs  come  to  abdicate 

The  gross  regality  of  strength, 

Must  yet  in  this  thy  praise  abate. 
That  through  thine  erring  humble- 
ness 
And  disregard  of  thy  degree. 
Mainly,  has  man  been  so  much  less 
Than  fits  his  fellowship  with  thee. 
High  thoughts  had  shaped  the  fool- 
ish brow. 
The  coward  had  grasped  the  hero's 
sword. 
The  vilest  had  been   great,  hadst 
thou. 
Just  to  thyself,  been  worth's  re- 
ward : 
But  lofty  honors  undersold 

Seller  and  buyer  both  disgrace ; 
And  favor  that  makes  folly  bold 
Puts  out  the  light  in  virtue's  face. 
Coventry  Patmoke. 


I'LL  NEVER  LOYE  THEE  MORE. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 

That  little  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchy : 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

AVliich  virtuous  souls  abhor, 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

Like  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone : 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small. 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 

To  gain  or  lose  it  all. 

But,  if  no  faithless  action  stain 

Thy  love  and  constant  word, 
I'll  make  thee  famous  by  my  pen. 

And  glorious  by  my  sword. 
I'll  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

As  ne'er  was  known  before ; 
I'll  deck  and  crown  thy  head  with 
bays. 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Maequis  of  Montrose. 


TO  LUCASTA. 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind. 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase. 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. 

Richard  Lovelace. 


APOLOGY    FOR    HAYING 
LOYED  BEFORE. 

They  that  never  had  the  use 
Of  the  grape's  surprising  juice, 
To  the  first  delicious  cup 
All  their  reason  render  up : 


64 


PARNASSUS. 


Neither  do,  nor  care  to,  know, 
Whether  it  be  best  or  no. 

So  they  that  are  to  love  inclined, 
Sway'd  by  chance,  nor  choice  or 
art. 

To  the  first  that's  fair  or  kind, 
Make  a  present  of  their  heart : 

Tis  not  she  that  first  we  love. 

But  whom  dying  we  approve. 

To  man,  that  was  in  th'  evening 
made. 

Stars  gave  the  first  delight ; 
Admiring  in  the  gloomy  shade 

Those  little  drops  of  light. 

Then,  at  Aurora,  whose  fair  hand 
Removed  them  from  the  skies. 

He  gazing  toward  the  east  did  stand, 
She  entertained  his  eyes. 

But  when  the  bright  sun  did  appear, 
All  those  he  'gan  despise ; 

His  wonder  was  determin'd  there. 
And  could  no  higher  rise. 

He    neither  might   nor   wished   to 
know 
A  more  refulgent  light ; 
For  that    (as    mine    your  beauties 
now), 
Employed  his  utmost  sight. 

Edmund  Walleb. 


THE  LADY'S  YES. 

**  Yes ! "  I  answered  you  last  night: 
"  No ! "  this  morning,  sir,  I  say. 
Colors  seen  by  candle-light 
Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

Wlien  the  tabors  played  their  best, 
Lamps  above,  and  laughs  below. 
Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest, 
Fit  for  Yes,  or  fit  for  No  I 

Call  me  false ;  or  call  me  free ; 
Vow,  whatever  light  may  shine, 
No  man  on  thy  face  shall  see 
Any  grief  for  change  on  mine. 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both : 
Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo ; 
Wooer  light  makes  fickle  troth. 
Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  you. 


Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 
Nobly  as  the  thing  is  high, 
Bravely  as  for  life  and  death, 
With  a  loyal  gravity. 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards ; 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies ; 
Guard  her  by  your  faithful  words, 
Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

By  your  truth  she  shall  be  true. 
Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore. 
And  her  Yes,  once  said  to  you, 
Shall  be  Yes  for  evermore. 
Elizabeth  Bajrrett  Browning. 


OUTGROWN. 

Nay,  you  wrong  her  my  friend, 
she's  not  fickle;  her  love  she 
has  simply  outgrown : 

One  can  read  the  whole  matter, 
translating  her  heart  by  the 
light  of  one's  own. 

Can  you  bear  me  to  talk  with  you 

frankly  ?    There  is  much  that 

my  heart  would  say ; 
And  you    know  we  were  children 

together,  have  quarrelled  and 

"  made  up  "  in  play. 

And  so,  for  the  sake  of  old  friend- 
ship, I  venture  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  — 

As  plainly,  perhaps,  and  as  bluntly, 
as  I  might  in  our  earlier 
youth. 

Five  summers  ago,  when  you  wooci] 
her,  you  stood  on  the  self- 
same plane. 

Face  to  face,  heart  to  heart,  never 
dreaming  your  souls  could  be 
parted  again. 

She  loved  you  at  that  time  entirely, 

in  the  bloom  of  her  life's  early 

May; 
And  it  is  not  her  fault,  I  repeat  it, 

that  she  does  not   love   you 

to-day. 

Nature  never  stands  still,  nor  souls 
either:  they  ever  go  up  or 
go  down ; 


HUMAN   LIFE. 


65 


And  hers  has  been  steadily  soar- 
ing—  but  how  has  it  been 
with  your  own  ? 

She  has  struggled  and  yearned  and 
aspired,  grown  purer  and  wiser 
each  year: 

The  stars  are  not  farther  above 
you  in  yon  luminous  atmos- 
phere I 

For  she  whom  you  crowned  with 

fresh  roses,  down  yonder,  five 

summers  ago, 
Has    learned  that  the  first  of  our 

duties  to  God  and  ourselves  is 

to  grow. 

Her  eyes  they  are  sweeter  and 
calmer;  but  their  vision  is 
clearer  as  well : 

Her  voice  has  a  tenderer  cadence, 
but  is  pure  as  a  silver  bell. 

Her  face  has  the  look  worn  by  those 
who  with  God  and  his  angels 
have  talked : 

The  white  robes  she  wears  are  less 
white  than  the  spirits  with 
whom  she  has  walked. 

And  you?  Have  you  aimed  at  the 
highest?  Have  you,  too,  as- 
pired and  prayed  ? 

Have  you  looked  upon  evil  un- 
sullied ?  Have  you  conquered 
it  undismayed  ? 

Have  you,  too,  grown  purer  and 
wiser,  as  the  months  and  the 
years  have  rolled  on  ? 

Did  you  meet  her  this  morning  re- 
joicing in  the  triumph  of 
victory  won? 

N'ay,  hear  me!  The  truth  cannot 
harm  you.  Wlien  to-day  in 
her  presence  you  stood. 

Was  the  hand  that  you  gave  her  as 
white  and  clean  as  that  of  her 
womanhood  ? 

Go  measure  yourself  by  her  stand- 
ard; look  back  on  the  years 
that  have  fled : 

Then  ask,  if  you  need,  why  she  tells 
you  that  the  love  of  her  girl- 
hood is  dead. 
5 


She  cannot  look  down  to  her  lover: 
her  love  like  her  soul,  as- 
pires ; 

He  must  stand  by  her  side,  or  above 
her,  who  would  kindle  its 
holy  fires. 

Now  farewell !    For  the  sake  of  old 

friendship  I  have  ventured  to 

tell  you  the  truth. 
As  plainly,  perhaps,  and  as  bluntly, 

as    I    might    in    our    earlier 

youth. 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

Give  place,  ye  ladies,  and  begone. 
Boast  not  yourselves  at  all : 
For  here  at  hand  approacheth  one 
Whose  face  will  stain  you  all. 

The  virtue  of  her  lively  looks 
Excels  the  precious  stone : 
I  wish  to  have  none  other  books 
To  read  or  look  upon. 

In  each  of  her  two  crystal  eyes 
Smileth  a  naked  boy : 
It  would  you  all  in  heart  suffice 
To  see  that  lamp  of  joy. 

I  think  Nature  hath  lost  the  mould 
Wliere  she  her  shape  did  take ; 
Or  else  I  doubt  if  Nature  could 
So  fair  a  creature  make. 

In  life  she  is  Diana  chaste, 

In  truth  Penelope ; 

In  word  and  eke  in  deed  steadfast : 

Wliat  will  you  more  we  say  ? 

If  all  the  world  were  sought  so  far, 
Who  could  find  such  a  wight? 
Her  beauty  twinkleth  like  a  star 
Within  the  frosty  night. 

Her  rosial  color  comes  and  goes 
With  such  a  comely  grace, 
More  ruddier  too,  than  in  the  rose 
Within  her  lovely  face. 

At  Bacchus'  feast  none    shall  her 

meet. 
Nor  at  no  wanton  play, 
Nor  gazing  in  an  open  street, 
Nor  gadding  as  astray. 


66 


PARNASSUS. 


The  modest  mirth  that  she  doth  use 
Is  mixt  with  shamef astness ; 
All  vice  slie  dotli  wholly  refuse, 
And  hateth  idleness. 

O  Lord !  it  is  a  world  to  see 
How  virtue  can  repair 
And  deck  in  her  such  honesty, 
Whom  Nature  made  so  fair ! 

How  might  I  do  to  get  a  graffe 
Of  this  unspotted  tree  ? 
For  all  the  rest  are  plain  but  chaff. 
Which  seem  good  corn  to  be. 

Heywood. 


THE  TRIBUTE. 

No  splendor  'neath  the  sky's  proud 
dome 
But  serves  for  her  familiar  wear; 
The    far-fetch' d  diamond    finds  its 
home 
Flashing  and  smouldering  in  her 
hair; 
For  her  the  seas  their  pearls  reveal ; 
Art  and  strange  lands  her  pomp 
supply 
With  purple,  chrome,  and  cochineal, 

Ochre,  and  lapis  lazuli ; 
The  worm  its  golden  woof  presents ; 
Whatever    runs,    flies,    dives,    or 
delves, 
All  doff  for  her  their  ornaments, 
Which  suit  her  better  than  them- 
selves ; 
And  all,  by  this  their  power  to  give 
Proving    her  right  to    take,   pro- 
claim 
Her  beauty's  clear  prerogative 
To  profit  so  by  Eden'sblame. 

COVENTKY  PaTMORE. 


ELIZABETH  OF  BOHEMIA. 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More    by  your  number  than   your 
light,  — 
You  common  people  of  the  skies, 
Wliat  are  you  when  the  sun  shall 
rise? 

Ye  violets  that  first  appear, 
By    your    pure    purple    mantles 
known, 


Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year. 
As    if    the  spring  were  all  your 

own,  — 
What  are  you  when  the  rose   is 

blown  ? 

Ye  curious  chanters  of  the  wood. 
That  warble  forth  dame  Nature's 
lays. 
Thinking  your  voices  understood 
By  your  weak  accents,  —  what's 

your  praise 
When    Philomel    her  voice    shall 
raise  ? 

So  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen, 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind. 
By    virtue    first,     then    choice,     a 
queen. 
Tell  me  if  she  was  not  design' d 
Th'  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind. 
Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


THOU  HAST  SWORN  BY  THY 
GOD,   MY  JEANIE. 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my 

Jeanie, 
By  that  pretty  white  hand  o'  thine. 
And    by    a'    the    lowing    stars    in 

heaven, 
That  thou  wad  aye  be  mine ! 
And  I  liae   sworn  by  my  God,  my 

Jeanie, 
And  by  that  kind  heart  o'  thine. 
By  a'   the   stars  sown    thick    owre 

heaven, 
That  thou  shalt  aye  be  mine ! 

Then  foul  fa'  the  hands  that  wad 

loose  sic  bands, 
And  the  heart  that  wad  part  sic  luve ! 
But  there's  nae  hand  can  loose  my 

band. 
But  the  finger  o'  Him  above. 
Though   the  wee  wee  cot  maun  be 

my  bield. 
And  my  clothing  ne'er  sa  mean, 
I  wad  lap  me  up  rich  i'  the  faulds  o' 

luve,  — 
Heaven's  armfu'  o'  my  Jean. 

Her  white  arm  wad  be  a  pillow  for 

me 
Fu'  safter  than  the  down; 
And  Luve  wad  winnow  owre  us  his 

kind  kind  wings, 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


67 


An'  sweetly  I'd  sleep  an'  sound. 
Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  o'  my 

luve ! 
"Come  here  and  kneel  wi  me ! 
.The  morn  is  fu'  o'  the  presence  o' 

God, 
And  I  canna  pray  without  thee. 

The  morn  wind  is  sweet  'mang  the 

beds  o'  new  flowers, 
The  wee  birds  sing  kindlie  and  hie ; 
Our  gudeman  leans    o'er  his    kale 

yard  dyke, 
And  a  blythe  auld  hodie  is  he. 
The  Beuk  maun  be  ta'en  when  the 

carle  comes  hame, 
Wi  the  holy  psalmodie ; 
And  thou  maun  speak  o'  me  to  thy 

God, 
And  I  will  speak  o'  thee. 

Cunningham. 


VIRGINIA. 

This  knight  a  doughter  hadde  by 
his  wif. 

No  children  had  he  mo  in  all  his  lif. 

Faire  was  this  maid  in  excellent 
beautee 

Aboven  every  wight  that  man  may 
see : 

For  nature  hath  with  soveraine  dili- 
gence 

Yformed  hire  in  so  gret  excellence, 

As  though  she  wolde  sayn,  lo,  I 
Nature, 

Thus  can  I  forme  and  peint  a  crea- 
ture. 

Whan  that  me  list;  who  can  me 
contref  ete  ? 

Pigmalion  ?  not,  though  he  ay  forge 
and  bete. 

Or  grave,  or  peinte :  for  I  dare  wel 
sain, 

Apelles,  Xeuxis,  shulden  werche 
in  vain. 

Other  to  grave,  or  peinte,  or  forge, 
or  bete. 

If  they  presumed  me  to  contrefete. 

For  he  that  is  the  Former  principal. 

Hath  maked  me  his  vicaire  general 

To  forme  and  peinten  erthly  crea- 
tures 

Right  as  me  list,  and  eche  thing  in 
my  cure  is 

Under  the  mone,  that  may  wane 
and  waxe. 


And  for  my  werk  right  nothing  wo\ 

I  axe; 
My  lord  and  I  ben  ful  of  one  accord, 
1  made  her  to  the  worship  of  my  Lord. 
Chauceb. 


THE  BRIDE. 

Lo!   where  she  comes  along  with 

portly  pace. 
Like  Phoebe  from  her  chamber  of 

the  east. 
Arising  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 
Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virgin 

best. 
So  well  it  her  beseems,  that  ye  would 

ween 
Some  angel  she  had  been. 
Her  long,  loose  yellow  locks,  like 

golden  wire. 
Sprinkled  with  pearl,  and  pearling 

flowers  atween. 
Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire ; 
And  being  crowned  with  a  garland 

green. 
Seem  like  some  maiden  queen. 
Her  modest  eyes  abashed  to  behold 
So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare, 
Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are ; 
Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too 

bold. 
But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung 

so  loud. 
So  far  from  being  proud. 
Nathless  do  ye  still  loud  her  praises 

sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and 

your  echo  ring. 

Tell  me,  ye  merchants'  daughters, 
did  ye  see 

So  fair  a  creature  in  your  town  be- 
fore? 

So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as 
she. 

Adorned  with  Beauty's  grace  and 
Virtue's  store? 

Her  goodly  eyes  like  sapphires,  shin- 
ing bright. 

Her  forehead  ivory  white. 

Her  cheeks  like  apples  which  the 
sun  hath  rudded. 

Her  lips  like  cherries  charming  men 
to  bite. 

Her  breast  like  to  a  bowl  of  cream 
uncrudded. 

Her  paps  like  lilies  budded, 


68 


PARNASSUS. 


Her  snowy  neck  like  to  a  marble 

tower ; 
And  all  her  body  like  a  palace  fair, 
Ascending  up  with  many  a  stately 

stair 
To  Honor's  seat  and  Chastity's  sweet 

bower. 

Why  stand  ye  still,  ye  virgins,  in 

amaze, 
Upon  her  so  to  gaze, 
"Wliilst  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to 

sing. 
To  which  the  woods  did  answer,  and 

your  echo  ring. 

Spenser. 


THE  BRroE. 

Heb  finger  was  so  small  the  ring 
Would  not  stay  on  which  they  did 

bring,  — 
It  was  too  wide  a  peck ; 
And,  to    say   truth,  —  for   out    it 

must,  — 
It  looked  like    the    great   collar  — 

just  — 
About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat. 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 
As  if  they  feared  the  light ; 
But  O,  she  dances  such  a  way ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 
Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison ; 
Wlio  sees  them  is  undone ; 
For  streaks  of    red   were    mingled 

there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Cath'rine  pear, 
The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 

Her  lips  were  red ;  and  one  was  thin. 
Compared   to    that  was    next    her 

chin, 
Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her 

face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  thom  gaze, 
Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does 

speak 
Thou'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words 

did  break, 


That  they  might  passage  get; 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better, 
And  are  not  spent  a  whit. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 


VIOLA   DISGUISED   AND   THE 
DUKE. 

Duke.  —  Once  more,  Cesario, 

Glet   thee   to   yon    same   sovereign 
cruelty : 

The  parts    that   fortune   hath   be- 
stow'd  upon  her, 

Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  for- 
tune; 

But  'tis  that  miracle  and  queen  of 
gems. 

That  nature  pranks  her  in,  attracts 
my  soul. 
Viola. — But  if    she  cannot  love 

you,  sir? 
Duke.  —  I  cannot  be  so  answer' d. 
Vio.  —  Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say,  that  some  lady,  as  perhaps  there 
is, 

Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang 
of  heart 

As  you  have  for  Olivia :  you  cannot 
love  her ; 

You  tell  her  so ;  must  she  not,  then, 
be  answer' d? 
Duke.  —  There  is  no  woman's  sides 

Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a 
passion 

As  love  doth  give  my  heart :  no  wo- 
man's heart 

So  big,  to  hold  so  much ;  they  lack 
retention. 

Alas !  their  love  may  be  call'd  appe- 
tite, — 

No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  pal- 
ate,— 

That  suffer  forfeit,  cloyment,  and 
revolt ; 

But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea. 

And  can  digest  as  much:  make  no 
compare 

Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear 
me. 

And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 
Vio.  — Ay,  but  I  know,  — 
Duke.  — Wliat  dost  thou  know? 
Vio. — Too  well  what  love  women 
to  men  may  owe: 

In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as 
we. 


HUMAI^  LIFE. 


69 


My  father  had  a  daughter  lov'd  a 

man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a 

woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 
Duke.  —  And  what's  her  history? 
Vio.  —  A    blank,    my    lord.     She 

never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i' 

the  bud. 
Feed  on   her   damask   cheek;    she 

pin'd  in  thought; 
And  with  a  green  and  yellow  melan- 
choly, 
She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monu- 
ment, 
Smiling  at  grief.    Was  not  this  love 

indeed  ? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more ; 

but  indeed 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for 

still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our 

love. 
Duke. — But    died    thy  sister    of 

her  love,  my  boy  ? 
Vio.  —  I  am  all  the  daughters   of 

my  father's  house, 
And  all  the  brothers  too. 

Shakspeare. 


OTHELLO'S  DEFENCE. 

Most  potent,  grave,   and  reverend 

signiors, 
My  very  noble  and  approved  good 

masters. 
That  I  have  ta'en    away  this    old 

man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true ;  true,  I  have  married 

her; 
The  very  head    and   front   of   my 

offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.    Rude 

am  I  in  my  speech, 
And  little  bless'd  with  the  set  phrase 

of  peace. 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had 

seven  years'  pith. 
Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted, 

they  have  used 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented 

field: 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I 

speak. 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil 

and  battle ; 


And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my 

cause 
In    speaking   for    myself.     Yet,  by 

your  gracious  patience, 
I  will    a    round    unvarnished    tale 

deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love ;  what 

drugs,  what  charms, 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty 

magic, 
(For  such  proceeding  I  am  charged 

withal,) 
I  won  his  daughter  with. 

Her  father  loved  me,  oft  invited  me ; 
Still  questioned  me  the  story  of  my 

life. 
From   year   to    year;    the  battles, 

sieges,  fortunes, 
That  I  have  passed. 
I    ran    it    through,   even  from  my 

boyish  days. 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade 

me  tell  it : 
Wherein  I  spoke  of  most  disastrous 

chances. 
Of  moving  accidents,  by  flood  and 

field; 
Of  hairbreadth  scapes  in  the  immi- 
nent deadly  breach ; 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 
And  sold  to  slavery ;  of  my  redemp- 
tion thence. 
And  portance  in  my  travel's    his- 
tory : 
Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  deserts 

idle. 
Rough    quarries,    rocks,    and    hills 

whose  heads  touch  heaven. 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  such  was 

the  process : 
And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other 

eat. 
The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose 

heads 
Do   grow  beneath  their  shoulders. 

These  things  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline : 
But  still    the  house    affairs  would 

draw  her  thence ; 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste 

despatch. 
She'd    come    again,    and    with    a 

greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse:  which,  I 

observing. 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found 

good  means 


TO 


PARNASSUS. 


To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest 

heart, 
That    I    would    all    my  pilgrimage 

dilate, 
"Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  some- 
thing heard, 
But  not  intentively :  I  did  consent ; 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of   her 

tears. 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful 

stroke 
That  my  youth  suffer' d.     My  story 

being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world 

of  sighs: 
She  swore,  —  in  faith,  'twas  strange, 

'twas  passing  strange ; 
'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  piti- 
ful: 
She  wished  she  had  not  heard  it; 

yet  she  wished 
That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a 

man ;  she  thank' d  me ; 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that 

loved  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell 

my  story. 
And    that  would  woo    her.    Upon 

this  hint,  I  spake: 
She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had 

passed, 
And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity 

them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have 

used : 
Here  comes  the  lady,  let  her  witness 

it. 

Shakspeare. 


ATHULF  AND    ETHILDA. 

Athulf.  — Appeared 
The  princess  with  that  merry  child 

Prince  Guy : 
He  loves  me  well,  and  made  her  stop 

and  sit, 
And  sate  upon  her  knee,  and  it  so 

chanced 
That  in  his  various  chatter  he  denied 
That  I  could  hold  his  hand  within 

my  own 
So  closely  as  to  hide  it:  this  being 

tried 
Was  proved  against  him ;  he  insisted 

then 
I   could    not   by  his  royal   sister's 

hand 


Do  likewise.    Starting  at  the  random 

word. 
And  dumb  with  trepidation,  there  I 

stood 
Some  seconds  as  bewitched;  then  I 

looked  up, 
And  in  her  face   beheld   an  orient 

flush 
Of  half-bewildered   pleasure:   from 

which  trance 
She  with  an  instant  ease  resumed 

herself, 
And  frankly,  with  a  pleasant  laugh, 

held  out 
Her  arrowy  hand. 
I  thought  it  trembled  as  it  lay  in 

mine, 
But  yet  her  looks  were  clear,  direct, 

and  free, 
And  said  that  she  felt  nothing. 
Sldroc.  —  And  what  felt'st  thou  ? 
Athulf.  —  A  sort  of  swarming,  curl- 
ing, tremulous  tumbling, 
As  though  there  were  an  ant-hill  in 

my  bosom. 
I  said  I  was  ashamed.  —  Sidroc,  you 

smile. 
If  at  my  folly,  well!    But  if  you 

smile, 
Suspicious  of  a  taint  upon  my  heart, 
Wide  is  your  error,  and  you  never 

loved. 

Henry  Taylor. 


^THE  ECSTASY. 

Where,  like  a  pillow  on  a  bed, 
A  pregnant  bank  swelled  up  to 
rest 
The  violet's  declining  head. 

Sate  we  on  one  another's  breast. 
Our  hands  were  firmly  cemented 
By  a  fast  balm  which  thence  did 
spring. 
Our    eye-beams     twisted,    and    did 
thread 
Our  eyes  upon  one  double  string. 
So  to  ingraft  our  hands  as  yet 

Was  all  the  means  to  make  us  one, 
And  pictures  in  our  eyes  to  get 

Was  all  our  propagation. 
As  'twixt  two  equal  armies  Fate 

Suspends  uncertain  victory. 
Our  souls   (which  to    advance  our 
state 
Were  gone  out)  hung  'twixt  her 
and  me. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


7! 


And    whilst    our    souls    negotiate 
there, 
"We  like  sepulchral  statues  lay: 
All  clay  the  same  our  postures  were, 

And  we  said  nothing  all  the  day. 
If  any,  so  by  love  refined, 
That  he  soul's  language   under- 
stood, 
And  by  good  love  were  grown  all 
mind. 
Within  convenient  distance  stood, 
He,  (though  he  knew  not  which  soul 
spoke. 
Because  both  meant,  both  spoke 
the  same,) 
Might  thence  a  new  concoction  take, 
And  part  far  purer  than  he  came. 
This  ecstasy  doth  unperplex, 

We  said,  and  tell  us  what  we  love ; 
We  see  by  this  it  was  not  sex, 
We    see,  we  saw  not  what    did 
move : 
But  as  all  several  souls  contain 
Mixture  of  things  they  know  not 
what. 
Love  these  mixed  souls  doth  mix 
again, 
And  makes  both  one,  each  this 
and  that. 
A  single  violet  transplant, 
The  strength,  the  color,  and  the 
size 
(All  which   before    was    poor    and 
scant, ) 
Redoubles  still  and  multiplies. 
When  love  with  one  another  so 

Interanimates  two  souls. 
That  abler  soul  which  thence  doth 
flow 
Defects  of  loveliness  controls. 
We  then,  who  are  this  new  soul, 

know 
Of  what  we  are  composed  and  made : 

For  the  atoms  of  which  we  grow 
Are    soul,    whom    no    change    can 
invade. 
But,  O  alas !  so  long,  so  far 
Our  bodies  why  do  we  forbear? 
They  are  ours,    though  not  we. 
We  are 
The  Intelligences,  they  the  spheres : 
We    owe    them    thanks,   because 
they  thus 
Did  us  to  us  at  first  convey. 

Yielded  their  sense's  force  to  us, 
Nor  are  dross  to  us,  but  allay. 
On  man  Heaven's  influence  works 
not  so, 


But  that  it  first  imprints  the  Air ; 
For  soul  into  the  soul  may  flow. 
Though  it  to  body  first  repair. 
As  our  blood  labors  to  beget 
Spirits  as  like  souls  as  it  can. 

Because  such  fingers  need  to  knit 
That  subtile  knot  which  makes  us 
man: 
So  must  pure  lovers'  souls  descend 
To  affections  and  to  faculties. 
Which  sense  may  reach  and  ap- 
prehend ; 
Else  a  great  Prince  in  prison  lies. 
To  our  bodies  turn  we  then,  and  so 
Weak  men  on  love  revealed  may 
look ; 
Love's  mysteries  in  souls  do  grow, 

But  yet  the  body  is  the  book. 
And  if  some  lover  such  as  we 

Have  heard  this  dialogue  of  one, 
Let  him  still  mark  us,  he  shall  see 
Small    change    when    we're    to 
bodies  grown. 

Donne. 


LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT. 

Sitting  in  my  window. 
Pointing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw 

a  god, 
(I  thought,  but  it  was  you,)  enter 

our  gates ; 
My  blood  flew  out  and  back  again, 

as  fast 
As  I  had  prest  it  forth,  and  sucked 

it  in. 
Like  breath ;  then  was  I  called  away 

in  haste 
To  entertain  you.      Never   was    a 

man 
Heaved  from  a  sheepcot  to  a  sceptre, 

raised 
So  high  in  thoughts  as  I :  you  left  a 

kiss 
Upon  these  lips,  then,  which  I  mean 

to  keep 
From  you  forever.    I  did  hear  you 

talk 
Far  above  singing;  after  you  were 

gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart, 

and  searched 
What  stirred  it  so.     Alas!  I  found 

it  love. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher: 

Philaster. 


72 


PARNASSUS. 


MAUD. 


A  VOICE  by  the  cedar-tree, 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known 

to  nie, 
A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 
A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call  I 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 
In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of 

May, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 


II. 


Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the 

sunny  sky. 
And  feet  like  sunny  gems   on   an 

English  green ; 
Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and 

her  grace. 
Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that 

cannot  die, 
Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so 

sordid  and  mean, 
And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

in. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice. 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still !    I  will  hear  you  no  more ; 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me 

a  choice 
put  to  move  to  the  meadow,  and  fall 

before 
Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and 

adore, 
Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor 

kind, 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 

Tennyson. 


TO  VENUS. 

O  DrvTNE  star  of  Heaven, 
Thou  in  power  above  the  seven ; 
Thou,  O  gentle  Queen,  that  art 
Curer  of  each  wounded  heart, 


Thou  the  fuel,  and  the  flame; 
Thou  in  heaven,  and  here,  the  same ; 
Thou  the  wooer,  and  the  wooed ; 
Thou  the  hunger,  and  the  food ; 
Thou  the  prayer,  and  the  prayed ; 
Thou  what  is  or  shall  be  said. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


ROSALINE. 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines, 
Of  selfsame  color  is  her  hair. 
Whether  unfolded,  or  in  twines : 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline ! 
Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Resembling  Heaven  by  every  wink; 
The  Gods  do  fear  whereas  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the   blushing 

cloud 
That  beautifies  Aurora's  face. 
Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud 
That  Phojbus'    smiling  looks   doth 
grace ; 
Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline ! 
Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses 
Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbor  nigh, 
Within  which  bounds  she  balm  en- 
closes 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity : 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine  I 

Her  neck  is  like  a  stately  tower 
Where  Love  himself  imprisoned  lies, 
To  watch  for  glances  every  hour 
From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes : 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline ! 
Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight, 
Her  breasts  are  orbs  of   heavenly 

frame. 
Where  Nature  moulds  the  dew  of 

light 
To  feed  perfection  with  the  same : 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red. 
With  marble  white,  with  sapphire 

blue, 
Her  body  every  way  is  fed, 
Yet  soft  in  touch  and  sweet  in  view : 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline ! 
Nature  herself  her  shape  admires ; 
The  Gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight ; 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires. 


HUMAN  UFH 


73 


And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light : 
Heigho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

Then  muse  not,  Nymphs,  though  I 

bemoan 
The  absence  of  fair  Rosaline, 
Since  for  a  fair  there's  fairer  none. 
Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine : 
Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline ; 
Heigh  ho,  my  heart !  would  God  that 
she  were  mine  1 

T.  Lodge. 


SONG. 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of 
Love, 
Wherein  my  lady  rideth ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 
And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty. 
And  enamoured    do   wish  so  they 

might 
But  enjoy  such  a  sight ; 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side. 
Through     swords,     through     seas, 
whither  she  would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 
All  that  Love's  world  compriseth: 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 
As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth : 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smooth- 
er 
Than  words  that  soothe  her. 
And  from  her  arched  brows  such  a 

grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face. 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  ele- 
ment's strife. 

Have  you  seen  a  bright  lily  grow, 

Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 

Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o'  the 
snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  Bea- 
ver? 

Or  Swan's  down  ever? 

Or  have  smelt  of  the  bud  of  the  brier  ? 

Or  the  Nard  in  the  fire  ? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 

0  so  white,  O  so  soft,  O  so  sweet  is 
she! 

Ben  Jonson. 


ON  A  GIRDLE. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  con- 
fined 

Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind : 

No  monarch  but  would  give  his 
crown 

His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

A  narrow  compass !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good  and  all  that's 

fair : 
Give    me    but  what   this    ribband 

bound. 
Take  all  the  rest  the  Sun  goes  round. 

WAI.LER. 


SONNET. 

How  oft,  when  thou,  my  music,  mu- 
sic play'st. 

Upon  that  blessed  wood  whose  mo- 
tion sounds 

With  thy  sweet  fingers,  when  thou 
gently  sway'st 

The  wiiy  concord  that  mine  ear  con- 
founds. 

Do  I  envy  those  jacks,  that  nimble 
leap 

To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy 
hand, 

Whilst  my  poor  Ups,  which  should 
that  harvest  reap, 

At   the    wood's    boldness    by   thee 
blushing  stand ! 

To  be  so  tickled,  they  would  change 
their  state 

And  situation  with  those  dancing 
chips. 

O'er  whom  thy  fingers  walk  with 
gentle  gait. 

Making  dead  wood  more  bless'd  than 
living  lips. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in 

this, 
Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips 
to  kiss. 

Shakspeare. 


GENEYIEYE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  de- 
lights, 
Wliatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 


PARNASSUS. 


Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  tliat  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,    stealing   o'er  the 

scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my 

joy, 

My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story,  — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With    downcast   eyes    and   modest 

grace ; 
For   well    she    knew  I    could    not 

choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And    that    for  ten  long  years    he 
wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined ;  and  ah ! 
The    deep,    the  low,    the    pleading 

tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  fitting  blush. 
With    downcast  eyes,   and   modest 

grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely 

Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain- 
woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 


That    sometimes   from    the    savage 

den. 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome 

shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the 

face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than 
death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land ; 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his 

knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain, 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 
The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And    that    she    nursed    him   in  a 

cave; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away. 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ;  — 

His     dying   words,  —  but    when    I 

reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity. 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle 

hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes,  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin 

shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved :  she  stept  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept ; 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


75 


She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  em- 
brace ; 
And,  bending  back  her  head,  looked 
up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see. 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and    she   was 

calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 

Coleridge. 


THE  LILY  OF  NITHSDALE. 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my 
lassie. 
She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven; 
Ye' re  ower  pure,  quoth  the  voice  of 
God, 
For  dwalling  out  of  heaven ! 

0  what' 11  she    do  in  heaven,   my 

lassie? 

0  what'll  she  do  in  heaven?  — 
She'll  mix  her  ain  thoughts  with  an- 
gels' sangs, 

An'  make  them    mair  meet   for 
heaven. 

Low  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie, 

Low  there  thou  lies ; 
A  bonnier  form  ne'er  went  to  the 
yird, 

Nor  frae  it  will  arise ! 

Fu'  soon  I'll  follow  thee,  lassie, 

Fu'  soon  I'll  follow  thee; 
Thou  left  me  nought  to  covet  ahin'. 

But  took  gudness'  self  wi'  thee. 

1  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my 

lassie, 

1  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face ; 
Thou  seemed  a  lilie  new  cut  i'  the 

bud, 
An'  fading  in  its  place. 

I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my 
lassie, 
I  looked  ou  thy  death-shut  eye ; 


An'  a  lovelier  light  in  the  brow  of 
heaven 
Fell  time  shall  ne'er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm,  my 
lassie, 
Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm ; 
But  gane  was  the  holy  breath  of 
heaven 
To  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There's  nought  but  dust  now  mine, 
lassie. 
There's    nought    but    dust    now 
mine ; 
My  Saul's  wi  thee  in  the  cauld  grave, 
Au'  why  should  I  stay  behin'  ? 

Cunningham. 


THE  PEASANT'S   RETURN. 

And  passing  here  through  evening 

dew. 
He  hastened  happy  to  her  door, 
But  found  the  old  folk  only  two 
With  no  more  footsteps  on  the  floor 
To  walk  again  below  the  skies 
Where  beaten  paths  do  fall  and  rise. 

For  she  wer  gone  from  earthly  eyes 
To  be  a-kept  in  darksome  sleep 
Until  the  good  again  do  rise 
A  joy  to  souls  they  left  to  weep. 
The  rose  were  dust  that  bound  her 

brow ; 
The  moth  did  eat  her  Sunday  cape ; 
Her  frock  were  out  of  fashion  now ; 
Her  shoes  were    dried   up  out  of 

shape. 

William  Barnes. 


ARIADNE. 

But  I  wol  tume  againe  to  Ariadne, 
That   is  with    slepe   for  werinesse 

ytake, 
Ful    sorrowfully    her    herte'    may 
awake. 
Alas,  for  thee,  mine  herte  hath 
pite; 
Right  in  the  dawning  tho  awaketh 

she. 
And  gropeth  in  the  bed,  and  found 
right  nought : 
"Alas,"  (quoth  she)  "that  ever  I 
was  wrought,  — 


76 


PARNASSUS. 


I  am  betrayed,"  and  her  haire  to 

rent, 
And  to  the  strande  barefote  fast  she 

went, 
And  cried:    "Theseus,  mine  hert^ 

swete, 
Where  be  ye,  that  I  may  not  with 

you  mete  ? 
And  mighte  thus  with  beestes  ben 

yslaine." 
The  hollow  rocke's  answerede  her 

againe, 
No  man  she  saw,  and  yet  shone  the 

Moone, 
And  hie  upon    a   rocke    she  went 

soone, 
And  sawe  his  barge  sayling  in  the 

sea, 
Cold    woxe   her  herte,  and    righte 

thus  said  she : 
"Meker  then  ye  find  I  the  beestes 

wilde." 
Hath  he  not  sinne,  that  he  her  thus 

begilde  ? 
She    cried,    "O   turne    againe    for 

routhe  and  sinne, 
Thy  barge  hath  not  all  his  meinie 

in," 
Her  kerchefe  on  a  pole  sticked  she, 
Ascaunce  he  should  it  well  ysee, 
And  him  remembre  that  she  was 

behind. 
And  turne  againe,  and  on  the  stronde 

her  find. 
But  all  for  nought,  —  his  way  he 

is  ygone. 
And  down  she  fell  a  swone  upon  a 

stone. 
And  up  she  riste,  and  kissed  in  all 

her  care 
The  steppes  of  his  feete,  there  he 

hath  fare, 
And  to  her  bed  right  thus  she  spek- 

eth  tho : 
"Thou  bed,"    (quod  she)    "that 

hast  received  two, 
Thou  shalt  answere  of  two,  and  not 

of  one. 
Where  is  the  greater  parte,  away 

ygone  ? 
Alas,  where  shall  I  wretched  wight 

become  ? 
For  though  so  be  that  bote'  none  here 

come. 
Home  to  my  countrey  dare  I  not  for 

drede. 
I  can   my  selfe  in    this    case   not 

yrede." 


What  should  I  telld  more  her  com- 
plaining. 

It    is    so    long,    it    were    an  heavy 
thing  ? 

In  her  epistle,  Naso  telleth  all, 

But  shortly  to  the  ende  tell  I  shall. 

The    goddes    have    her  holpen    for 
pite. 

And,  in  the  signe  of  Taurus,  men 
may  see 

The    stones    of   her  crowne    shine 
clere, — 

I  will  no  more  speake  of  this  ma- 
tere. 

Chaucer. 


COMMON  SENSE. 

SECOND  THOUGHT. 

My  mistress's  eyes  are  nothing  like 

the  sun ; 
Coral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips' 

red; 
If   snow  be  white,  why  then   her 

breasts  are  dun ; 
If  hairs  be  wires,  black  wires  grow 

on  her  head. 
I  have  seen  roses  damask' d  red  and 

white, 
But  no  such   roses    see    I    in   her 

cheeks ; 
And  in  some  perfumes  is  there  more 

delight 
Than  in    the  breath  that  from  my 

mistress  reeks. 
I  love  to  hear  her  speak,  —  yet  well 

I  know 
That  music  hath  a  far  more  pleasing 

sound ; 
I  grant  I  never  saw  a  goddess  go,  — 
My  mistress,  when  she  walks,  treads 

on  the  ground ; 
And  yet  by  Heaven,  I  think  my 

love  as  rare 
As  any  she   belie' d  with  false 
compare. 

Shakspeabe. 


SENTENCES 

'Tis  truth,  (although  this  truth's  a 
star 

Too  deep-enskied  for  all  to  see). 
As  poets  of  grammar,  lovers  are 

The  weU-heads  of  morality. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


T7 


"Keep  measure  in  love?"     More 
light  befall 

Thy  sanctity,  and  make  it  less ! 
Be  sure  I  will  not  love  at  all 

Where  I  may  not  love  with  excess. 

Who  is  the  happy  husband  ?    He 
Who,  scanning  his  unwedded  life, 

Thanks  Heaven,  with  a  conscience 
free, 
'Twas  faithful  to  his  future  wife. 

COVENTBY  PATMORE. 


SONNET. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true 

minds 
Admit  impediments.    Love   is    not 

love 
Which    alters    when    it    alteration 

finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  re- 
move ; 
O  no ;  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 
That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never 

shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering 

bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although 

his  height  be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy 

lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass 

come; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours 

and  weeks. 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of 

doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me 

proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever 
loved. 

Shakspeare. 


THE  PILOrS  DAUGHTER. 

O'er  western  tides  the  fair  Spring 

Day 
Was  smiling  back  as  it  withdrew, 
And  all  the  harbor,  glittering  gay. 

Returned  a  blithe  adieu ; 
Great  clouds  above  the  hills  and  sea 
Kept  brilliant  watch,   and  air  was 

free 
Where  last  lark  firstborn  star  shall 

greet,  — 


When,  for  the  crowning  vernal  sweet, 

Among  the  slopes  and  crags  I  meet 

The  pilot's  pretty  daughter. 

Round  her  gentle,  happy  face. 

Dimpled  soft,  and  freshly  fair, 
Danced  with  careless  ocean  grace 

Locks  of  auburn  hair : 
As  lightly  blew  the  veering  wind. 
They  touched  her  cheeks,  or  waved 

behind. 

Unbound,  unbraided,  and  unlooped ; 

Or  when  to  tie  her  shoe  she-  stooped. 

Below     her    chin    the     half-curls 

drooped. 

And  veiled  the  pilot's  daughter.' 

Rising,  she  tossed  them  gayly  back, 
With  gesture  infantine  and  brief, 
To  fall  around  as  soft  a  neck 

As  the  wild-rose's  leaf. 
Her  Sunday  frock  of  lilac  shade 
(That  choicest  tint)  was  neatly  made, 
And  not  too  long  to  hide  from  view 
The  stout  but  noway  clumsy  shoe. 
And  stockings'  smoothly-fitting  blue, 
That  graced  the  pilot's  daughter. 

With  look  half  timid  and  half  droll, 
And  then  with  slightly  downcast 
eyes. 
And  blush  that  outward  softly  stole. 

Unless  it  were  the  skies 
Whose  sun-ray  shifted  on  her  cheek, 
She  turned  when  I  began  to  speak ; 
But  'twas  a  brightness  all  her  own 
That  in   her   firm   light   step    was 

shown, 
And  the  clear  cadence  of  her  tone ; 
The  pilot's  lovely  daughter. 

Were  it  my  lot  (the  sudden  wish) 
To  hand  a  pilot's  oar  and  sail. 
Or  haul  the  dripping  moonlight  mesh, 

Spangled  with  herring-scale ; 
By  dying  stars,  how  sweet  'twould  be, 
And  dawn-blow  freshening  the  sea. 
With  weary,  cheery  pull  to  shore. 
To  gain  my  cottage  home  once  more, 
And  clasp,  before  I  reach  the  door, 
My  love,  the  pilot's  daughter. 

This  element  beside  my  feet 
Allures,  a  tepid  wine  of  gold ; 

One  touch,  one  taste,  dispels    the 
cheat 
'Tis  salt  and  nipping  cold : 

A  fisher's  hut,  the  scene  perforce 


78 


PARNASSUS. 


Of   narrow  thoughts  and  manners 

coarse, 
Coarse  as  the  curtains  that  beseem 
With  net-festoons  tlie  smoky  beam, 
Would    never    lodge     my   favorite 

dream, 
E'en  with  my  pilot's  daughter. 

To  the  large  riches  of  the  earth, 

Endowing  men  in  their  own  spite, 
The  poor,  by  privilege  of  birth, 
Stand  in  the  closest  right. 
Yet  not«,lone  the  palm  grows  dull 
With  clayey  delve  and  watery  pull : 
And  this  for  me,  —  or  hourly  pain. 
But  could  I  sink  and  call  it  gain  ? 
Unless  a  pilot  true,  'twere  vain 
To  wed  a  pilot's  daughter. 

Like  her,  perhaps?  —  but  ah!  I  said, 
Much    wiser   leave    such   thoughts 

alone. 
So  may  thy  beauty,  simple  maid, 
Be  mine,  yet  all  thine  own. 
Joined  in  my  free  contented  love 
With  companies  of  stars  above ; 
Wlio,    from    their    throne    of    airy 

steep. 
Do  kiss  these  ripples  as  they  creep 
Across    the    boundless,    darkening 

deep,  — 
Low  voiceful  wave!  hush  soon  to 

sleep 
The  gentle  pilot's  daughter. 

Allingham. 


SON:f^ET. 

So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed 
key 

Can  bring  him  to  his  sweet  up- 
locked  treasure. 

The  which  he  will  not  every  hour 
survey, 

For  blunting  the  fine  point  of  sel- 
dom pleasure. 

Therefore  are  feasts  so  solemn  and 
so  rare, 

Since  seldom  coming,  in  the  long 
year  set. 

Like  stones  of  worth  they  thinly 
placed  are. 

Or  captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet. 

So  is  the  time  that  keeps  you,  as  my 
chest, 

Or  as  the  wardrobe  which  the  robe 
doth  hide, 


To  make  some  special  instant  special- 
blest. 
By  new  unfolding   his    im prison' d 
pride. 
Blessed  are  you,  whose  worthi- 
ness gives  scope. 
Being  had,   to  triumph,    being 
lack'd,  to  hope. 

Shakspeare. 


SYMPATHY. 

Lately,  alas !  I  knew  a  gentle  boy, 
Whose    features .  all    were    cast    in 

Virtue's  mould, 
As  one  she  had  designed  for  Beauty's 

toy, 
But  after  manned  him  for  her  own 

stronghold. 

On  every  side  he  open  was  as  day, 
That    you    might   see    no    lack  of 

strength  within; 
For  walls  and  ports  do  only  serve 

alway 
For  a  pretence  to  feebleness  and  sin. 

Say  not  that  Caesar  was  victorious. 
With  toil  and  strife  who  stormed 

the  House  of  Fame, 
In    other    sense    this    youth    was 

glorious. 
Himself  a  kingdom  whereso'er  he 

came. 

No  strength  went  out  to  get  him 

victory. 
When  all  was  income  of    its  own 

accord ; 
For  where  he  went  none  other  was 

to  see. 
But  all  were  pai*cel  of  their  noble  lord. 

He  forayed  like  the  subtle  haze  of 

summer, 
That  stilly  shows  fresh   landscapes 

to  our  eyes, 
And  revolutions  works    without   a 

murmur. 
Or  rustling  of  a  leaf  beneath  the  skies. 

So  was  I  taken  unawares  by  this, 
1  quite  forgot  my  homage  to  confess ; 
Yet  now  am  forced  to  know,  though 

hard  it  is, 
I   might   have    loved    him,  had    I 

loved  him  less. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


79 


Each  moment  as  we  nearer  drew  to 

each, 
A  stern  respect  withheld  us  further 

yet, 

So   that  we    seemed   beyond    each 

other's  reach, 
And  less  acquainted  than  when  first 

we  met. 

We    two   were    one  while  we    did 

sympathize, 
So  could  we  not  the  simplest  bargain 

drive ; 
And  what  avails  it,  now  that  we  are 

wise. 
If    absence    doth   this    doubleness 

contrive  ? 

Eternity  may  not  the  chance  repeat ; 
But  I  must  tread  my  single  way  alone. 
In  sad  remembrance  that  we  once 

did  meet, 
And  know  that  bliss  irrevocably  gone. 

The    spheres    henceforth  my  elegy 

shall  sing. 
For  elegy  has  other  subject  none ; 
Each  strain  of    music  in  my  ears 

shall  ring 
Knell  of  departure  from  that  other 

one. 

Make  haste  and  celebrate  my  trage- 
dy; 

With  fitting  strain  resound,  ye  woods 
and  fields ; 

Sorrow  is  dearer  in  such  case  to  me 

Than  all  the  joys  other  occasion 
yields. 


Is't  then   too    late  the  damage  to 

repair  ? 
Distance,   forsooth,   from  my  weak 

grasp  has  reft 
The  empty  husk,  and  clutched  the 

useless  tare, 
But    in  my  hands  the  wheat  and 

kernel  left. 

If  I  but  love  that  virtue  which  he  is. 

Though  it  be  scented  in  the  morning 
air, 

Still  shall  we  be    truest   acquaint- 
ances. 

Nor  mortals  know  a  sympathy  more 
rare. 

Thobeau. 


MY    PLAYMATE. 

The  pines  were  dark    on   Eamoth 
hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low ; 
The    blossoms    in   the    sweet   May 
wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  : 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than   birds      or 
flowers. 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 
And    took  with    her  the    laughing 
spring. 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 
She  laid  her  hand  in  mine : 

What  more  could  ask  the  bashful 
boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May: 
The  constant  years  told  o'er      i 

Their  seasons  with  as  sweet   May 
morns ; 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk  with  noiseless  feet  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years : 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow : 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown, — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 
The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill. 

And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make 
sweet 
The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond ; 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree ; 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 


80 


PARNASSUS. 


I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems ; 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice : 
Does  she  remember  mine  ? 

And  what  to  lier  is  now  tlie  boy 
Who  fed  lier  father's  kine? 

What  cares  she  that  tlie  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours ; 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green ; 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet ; 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and 
fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee. 

Whittiek. 


DIVIDED. 


An  empty  sky,  a  world  of  heather, 
Purple  of  foxglove,  yellow  of  broom ; 

We  two  among  them  wading  together. 
Shaking  out  honey,  treading  per- 
fume. 

Crowds  of  bees  are  giddy  with  clover. 
Crowds  of  grasshoppers  skip  at  our 
feet, 
Crowds  of  larks  at  their  matins  hang 
over. 
Thanking  the  Lord  for  a  life  so 
sweet. 

Flusheth  the  rise  with  her  purple 
favor, 
Gloweth  the  cleft  with  her  golden 
ring, 
'Twixt    the  two   brown  butterflies 
waver, 
Lightly  settle,  and  sleepily  swing. 


We  two  walk  till  the  purple  dieth. 
And  short  dry  grass  under  foot  is 
brown. 
But  one  little  streak  at  a  distance 
lieth 
Green  like  a  ribbon  to  prank  the 
down. 


II. 


Over  the  grass  we  stepped  unto  it, 
And  God  he  knoweth  how  blithe 
we  were ! 
Never  a  voice  to  bid  us  eschew  it : 
Hey  the  green  ribbon  that  showed 
so  fair  1 

Hey  the  green  ribbon!  we  kneeled 
beside  it. 
We  parted  the  grasses  dewy  and 
sheen : 
Drop  over  drop  there  filtered   and 
slided 
A  tiny  bright  beck  that  trickled 
between. 

Tinkle,  tinkle,  sweetly  it  sung  to  us, 

Light  was  our  talk  as  of    faGry 

bells; 

Faery  wedding-bells  faintly  rung  to 

us 

Down  in  their  fortunate  parallels. 

Hand  in  hand  wliile  the  sun  peered 
over, 
We  lapped  the  grass  on  that  young- 
ling spring; 
Swept  back  its  rushes,  smoothed  its 
'clover,  ■ 
And  said,  "  Let  us  follow  it  west- 
ering." 

in. 

A  dappled  sky,  a  world  of  meadows, 
Circling  above  us  the  black  rooks 

fly 

Forward,  backward;   lo  their  dark 
shadows 
Flit  on  the  blossoming  tapestry ; 

Flit  on  the  beck ;  for  her  long  grass 
parteth 
As  hair  from  a  maid's  bright  eyes 
blown  back : 
And,  lo,  the  sun  like  a  lover  darteth 
His  flattering  smile  on  her  way- 
ward track. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


81 


6ing  on!   we  sing  in  the  glorious 
weather 
Till  one  steps  over  the  tiny  strand, 
So  narrow,  in  sooth,  that  still  to- 
gether 
On  either  brink  we  go  hand  in 
hand. 

The  beck  grows  wider,  the  hands 
must  sever. 
On  either  margin,  our  songs  all  done, 
We  move  apart,  while  she   singeth 
ever, 
Taking  the  course  of  the  stooping 
sun. 

He  prays,   "Come  over,"  —  I  may 
not  follow ; 
I  cry,  "  Return,"  — but  he  cannot 
come : 
We  speak,  we  laugh,  but  with  voices 
hollow ; 
Our  hands  are  hanging,  our  hearts 
are  numb. 


IV. 


A  breathing  sigh,  a  sigh  for  answer, 
A  little  talking  of  outward  things : 

The  careless  beck  is  a  merry  dancer. 
Keeping  sweet  time  to  the  air  she 
sings. 

A  little  pain  when  the  beck  grows 
wider ; 
"  Cross  to  me  now;  for  her  wave- 
lets swell;" 
"  I  may  not  cross,"  —  and  the  voice 
beside  her 
Faintly  reacheth,  though  heeded 
well. 

No  backward  path ;  ah !  no  returning ; 
No  second  crossing  that  ripple's 
flow: 
"Come  to  me  now,  for  the  west  is 
burning ; 
Come  ere  it  darkens."  —  "  Ah,  no ! 
ah,  no  I" 

Then  cries  of  pain,  and  arms  out- 
reaching. 
The  beck  grows  wider  and  swift 
and  deep : 
Passionate  words  as  of  one  beseech- 
ing: 
The  loud  beck  drowns  them:  we 
walk,  and  weep. 


A  yellow  moon  in  splendor  drooping, 

A    tired    queen    with    her    state 

oppressed. 

Low    by    rushes    and     swordgrass 

stooping. 

Lies  she  soft  on  the  waves  at  rest. 

The  desert  heavens  have  felt  her 
sadness ; 
Her  earth    will   weep   her  some 
dewy  tears ; 
The  wild  beck  ends  her  tune   of 
gladness. 
And  goeth  stilly  as  soul  that  fears. 

We  two  walk  on  in  our  grassy  places 
On  either  marge  of  the  moonlit 
flood. 
With  the  moon's  own  sadness  in  our 
faces. 
Where   joy  is  withered,  blossom 
and  bud, 

VI. 

A  shady  freshness,  chafers  whirring ; 

A  little  piping  of  leaf -hid  birds ; 
A  flutter  of  wings,  a  fitful  stirring ; 

A  cloud  to  the  eastward  snowy  as 
curds. 

Bare  grassy  slopes  where  kids  are 
tethered, 
Eound  valleys  like  nests  all  ferny- 
lined. 
Round  hills,  with  fluttering  tree-tops 
feathered. 
Swell  high  in  their  freckled  robes 
behind. 

A    rose-flush    tender,    a    thrill,    a 
quiver, 
When  golden  gleams  to  the  tree- 
tops  glide ; 
A  flashing  edge  for  the  milk-white 
river, 
The  beck,  a  river — with  still  sleek 
tide. 

Broad  and  white,  and  polished  as 
silver 
On   she   goes    under   fruit-laden 
trees : 
Sunk  in  leafage  cooeth  the  culver, 
And  'plaineth  of  love's  disloyal 
ties. 


82 


PARNASSUS. 


Glitters  the    dew,   and   shines    the 
river, 
Up  comes  the  lily  and  dries  her 
bell; 
But  two  are  walking  apart  forever. 
And  wave  their  hands  for  a  mute 
farewell. 

VII. 

A  braver  swell,  a  swifter  shding; 
The  river  hasteth,  her  banks  re- 
cede. 
Wing-like  sails  on  her  bosom  gliding 
Bear  down  the  lily,  and  drown  the 
reed. 

Stately  prows  are  rising  and  bowing 

(Shouts  of  mariners  winnow  the 

air), 

And  level  sands  for  banks  endowing 

The  tiny  green  ribbon  that  showed 

so  fair. 

While,  O  my  heart!  as  white  sails 
shiver, 
And  clouds  are  passing,  and  banks 
stretch  wide, 
How  hard  to  follow,  with  lips  that 
quiver. 
That  moving  speck  on  the  far-off 
side. 

Farther,  farther ;  I  see  it,  know  it  — 
My  eyes  brim  over,  it  melts  away : 

Only  my  heart  to  my  heart   shall 
show  it 
As  I  walk  desolate  day  by  day. 

vin. 

And  yet  I  know  past  all  doubting, 
truly,  — 
A  knowledge  greater  than  grief 
can  dim,  — 
I  know,  as  he  loved,  he  will  love  me 
duly,  — 
Yea    better,  e'en   better  than    I 
love  him. 

And    as    I  walk  by  the  vast   calm 
river, 
The  awful  river  so  dread  to  see, 
I  say,  "  Thy  breadth  and  thy  depth 
forever 
Are  bridged  by  his  thoughts  that 
cross  to  me." 

Jean  Ingelow. 


QUA  CURSUM  YENTUS. 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side. 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are    scarce,  long   leagues    apart, 
descried ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the 

breeze. 

And  all  the  darkling  hours  they 

plied, 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  selfsame  seas 

By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  un- 
changed. 
Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel. 
Astounded,    soul    from    soul    es- 
tranged ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were 
filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered : 
Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed. 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  ap- 
peared ! 

To  veer,  how  vain!     On,  onward 
strain. 
Brave  barks!    In  light,  in  dark- 
ness too. 
Through  winds  and  tides  one  com- 
pass guides,  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be 
true. 

Bu't  O  blithe  breeze,  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  part- 
ing past. 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last  I 

One    port,  methought,    alike    they 
sought. 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they 
fare,  — 

0  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas. 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there ! 

Clough. 

SUNDERED. 

1  CHALLENGE  not  the  Oracle 
That  drove  you  from  my  board: 

I  bow  before  the  dark  decree 
That  scatters  as  J.  hoard. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


83 


You  vanished  like  the  sailing  ship 

That  rides  far  out  at  sea. 
I  murmur  as  your  farewell  dies 

And  your  f orai  floats  from  me ; 

Ah !  ties  are  sundered  in  this  hour : 

No  tide  of  fortune  rare 
Shall  bring  the  heart  I  owned  before, 

And  my  love's  loss  repair. 

When  voyagers  make  a  foreign  port, 
And  leave  their  precious  prize, 

Returning     home     they     bear    for 
freight 
A  bartered  merchandise. 

Alas !  When  you  come  back  to  me, 
And  come  not  as  of  yore, 

But  with  your  alien  wealth  and  peace, 
Can  we  be  lovers  more  ? 

I  gave  you  up  to  go  your  ways, 

O  you  whom  I  adored ! 
Love  hath  no  ties,  but  Destiny 

Shall  cut  them  with  a  sword. 

Sidney  H.  Morse. 


LOVE   AGAINST  LOVE. 

As    unto    blowing    roses    summer 

dews. 
Or  morning's  amber  to  the  tree-top 

choirs, 
So  to  my  bosom  are  the  beams  that 

use 
To  rain  on  me  from  eyes  that  love 

inspires. 
Your    love,  —  vouchsafe    it,    royal- 
hearted  Few, 
And  I  will  set  no    common  price 

thereon, 
O,  I  will  keep,  as  heaven  his  holy 

blue. 
Or  night  her  diamonds,  that  dear 

treasure  won. 
But  aught  of  inward  faith  must  I 

forego. 
Or  miss  one  drop  from  truth's  bap- 
tismal hand. 
Think  poorer  thoughts,  pray  cheaper 

prayers,  and  grow 
Less    worthy  trust,   to    meet    your 

heart's  demand,  — 
Farewell !  Your  wish  I  for  your  sake 

deny : 
Rebel  to  love  in  truth  to  love  am  I. 
D.  A.  Wasson. 


INBORN  ROYALTY. 

O  THOU  goddess, 

Thou  divine    Nature,   how    thyself 
thou  blazon' st 

In  these  two  princely  boys !     They 
are  as  gentle 

As  zephyrs,  blowing  below  the  vio- 
let. 

Not  wagging  his  sweet  head:  and 
yet  as  rough. 

Their  royal  blood  enchafed,  as  the 
rud'st  wind. 

That   by   the    top    doth   take   the 
mountain  pine. 

And  make  him  stoop  to  the  vale. 
'Tis  wonderful 

That    an    invisible    instinct  should 
frame  them 

To    royalty    unlearned;   honor  un- 
taught ; 

Civility  not  seen  from  other ;  valor, 

That    wildly  grows    in    them,    but 
yields  a  crop 

As  if  it  had  been  sowed ! 

Shakspeake  :  Cymbeline, 


GENTILITY. 

But  for  ye  speken  of  such  gentil- 


As  is  descended  out  of  old  richesse. 
That  therfore  shuUen  ye  be  gentil- 

men,  — 
Such  arrogance  n'is  not  worth  an  hen. 
Look  who  that  is  most  virtuous 

alway, 
Prive  and  apart,  and  most  entendeth 

aye 
To  do  the  gentil  dedes  that  he  can. 
And  take  him  for  the  greatest  gen- 

tilman. 
Christ  wol  we  claime  of  him  our 

gentillesse. 
Not  of  our  elders  for  their  old  rich- 
esse: 
For  though  they  gave  us  all  their 

heritage. 
For  which  we  claim  to  be  of  high 

parage. 
Yet    may  they  not    bequethen,  for 

no  thing. 
To  none  of  us,  their  virtuous  living. 
That  made  them  gentilmen  called  to 

be, 
And  bade  us  follow  them  in  such 

degree. 


84 


PARNASSUS. 


"  Wei  can  the  wise  poet  of  Flor- 
ence, 
That  highte  Dant,  speken  of  this 

sentence : 
Lo,  in  such  maner  rime  is  Dante's 

tale. 
Ful  selde  upriseth  by  his  branches 

smale 
Prowesse  of   man,  for  God  of  his 

goodnesse 
Will  that  we  claime  of  him  our  gen- 

tillesse : 
For  of  our  elders  may  we  nothing 

claime 
But  temporal  thing,  that  man  may 

hurt  and  maime. 
"Eke  every  wight  wot  this  as  wel 

as  I, 
If  gentillesse  were   planted  natur- 

elly 
Unto  a  certain  linage  down  the  line, 
Prive  and  apart,  then  wol  they  never 

fine 
To  don  of  gentillesse  the  faire  of- 
fice. 
They  mighten  do  no  vilanie  or  vice. 
"Take  fire  and  beare  it  into  the 

derkest  hous 
Betwixt  this  and  the  mount  of  Cau- 
casus, 
And  let  men  shut  the  dores,  and  go 

thenne, 
Tet  <v^ol  the  fire  as  faire    lie  and 

brenne 
As  twenty  thousand  men  might  it 

behold ; 
His  office  naturel  ay  wol  it  hold. 
Up  peril  of  my  lif,  til  that  it  die. 
"  Here  may  ye  see  wel,  how  that 

genterie 
Is  not  annexed  to  possession, 
Sith  folk  ne  don  their  operation 
Alway,  as  doth  the  fire,  lo,  in  his 

kind. 
For  God  it  wot,  men  may  full  often 

find 
A  lorde's  son  do  shame  and  vilanie. 
And  he  that  wol  have  prize  of  his 

genterie. 
For  he  was  boren  of  a  gentil  house, 
And  had  his  elders  noble  and  virtu- 
ous, 
And  n'ill  himselven  do  no    gentil 

dedes, 
Ne  folwe  his  gentil  auncestrie,  that 

dead  is, 
He  n'is  not  gentil,  be  he  duke  or 

erl; 


For   vilains'   sinful   dedes    make  a 

churl. 
For  gentillesse  n'is  but  the  renomee 
Of   thine   auncestres,  for  their  high 

bountee, 
Which  is  a  strange  thing  to  thy  per- 

sone : 
Thy   gentillesse     cometh    fro   God 

alone. 
Than  cometh  our  very  gentillesse  of 

grace, 
It  was  no  thing  bequethed  us  with 

our  place, 

Chauceb, 


BEAUTY. 

So  every  spirit,  as  it  is  most  pure, 
And  hath  in  it  the  more  of  heaven- 
ly light, 
So  it  the  fairer  body  doth  procure 
To  habit  in,  and  it  more  fairly  diglit 
With  cheerful   grace   and    amiable 

sight; 
For  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth 

take; 
For  soul  is  form,  and  doth  the  body 
make. 

Therefore  wherever  that  thou  dost 
behold 

A  comely  corpse,  with  beauty  fair 
endued. 

Know  this  for  certain,  that  the  same 
doth  hold 

A  beauteous  soul,  with  fair  condi- 
tions thewed. 

Fit  to  receive  the  seed  of  virtue 
strewed ; 

For  all  that  fair  is,  is  by  nature  good ; 

That  is  a  sign  to  know  the  gentle 
blood. 

Yet  oft  it  falls  that  many  a  gentle 
mind 

Dwells  in  deformed  tabernacle 
drowned. 

Either  by  chance,  against  the  course 
of  kind. 

Or  through  unaptnesse  in  the  sub- 
stance found, 

Wliich  it  assumed  of  some  stubborne 
ground, 

That  will  not  yield  unto  her  form's 
direction, 

But  is  perform'd  with  some  foul  im- 
perfection. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


85 


And  oft  it  falls  (ay6  itie,  the  more  to 
rue!) 

That  goodly  beauty,  albeit  heavenly 
born, 

Is  foulabus'd,  and  that  celestial  hue, 

Which  doth  the  world  with  her  de- 
light adorn, 

Made  but  the  bait  of  sin,  and  sin- 
ners' scorn, 

Whilst  every  one  doth  seek  and  sue 
to  have  it, 

But  every  one  doth  seek  but  to  de- 
prave it. 

Yet  nathemore  is  that  faire  beauty's 

blame, 
But  theirs  that  do  abuse  it  unto  ill : 
Nothing  so  good,  but  that  through 

guilty  shame 
May  be  corrupt,  and  wrested  unto 

will: 
Nathelesse  the    soule    is   fair   and 

beauteous  still, 
However  fleshe's  fault  it  filthy  make ; 
For  things  immortal  no  corruption 

take. 

SPEJifSER. 


UNA  AND  THE  LION. 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome 

way. 
From   her  unhasty  beast    she    did 

alight ; 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs 

did  lay. 
In  secret  shadow  far  from  all  men's 

sight; 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  un- 

dight. 
And  laid  her  stole  aside;  her  angel's 

face 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shined 

bright. 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady 

place ; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such 

heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly, 
Hunting  full   greedy    after   savage 

blood. 
Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  gree- 
dily, 


To  have  at  once  devoured  her  tender 
corse ; 

But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew 
more  nigh, 

His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  re- 
morse. 

And  with  the  sight  amazed,  forgat 
his  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof,  he  kissed  her  weary 
feet, 

And  licked  her  lily  hands  with  fawn- 
ing tongue. 

As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did 
weet. 

Oh!  how  can  beauty  master  the 
most  wrong, 

And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging 
strong ! 

Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  sub- 
mission. 

Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had 
marked  long. 

Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  com- 
passion, 

And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure 
affection. 

"The  lion,  lord  of  every  beast  in 

field," 
Quoth  she,  "his  princely  puissance 

doth  abate. 
And  mighty  proud  to  humble  weak 

does  yield 
Forgetful  of  the  hungry  rage,  which 

late 
Him  pricked,  in  pity  of  my  sad  es- 
tate :  — 
But  he,  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord, 
How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to 

hate 
Her  that  him  loved,  and  ever  most 

adored 
As  the  god  of  my  life  ?    Why  hath 

he  me  abhorred?" 

Redounding  tears  did  choke  th'  end 
of  her  plaint, 

Which  softly  echoed  from  the  neigh- 
bor wood ; 

And  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful  con- 
straint 

The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing 
stood ; 

With  pity  calmed,  down  fell  his  an- 
gry mood. 

At  last,  in  close  heart  shutting  up 
her  pain. 


86 


PARNASSUS. 


Arose  the  virgin,  bom  of  heavenly 

brood, 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  again 
To  seek  her  strayed  champion  if  she 

might  attain. 

The  lion  would  not  leave  her  deso- 
late, 

But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong 
guard 

Of  her  chaste  person,  and  a  faithful 
mate. 

Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both 
watch  and  ward ; 

And,  when  she  waked,  he  waited 
diligent. 

With  humble  service  to  her  will  pre- 
pared: 

From  her  fair  eyes  he  took  com- 
mandment 

And  ever  by  her  looks  conceived  her 
intent. 

Spensee. 


WHEN   I    DO    COUNT    THE 
CLOCK. 

When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells 

the  time, 
And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hide- 
ous night ; 
When    I    behold    the    violet    past 

prime, 
And  sable  curls  all  silvered  o'er  with 

white; 
When  lofty  trees  I   see  barren  of 

leaves, 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the 

herd. 
And  summer's  green,  all  girded  up 

in  sheaves, 
Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and 

bristly  beard ; 
Then  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question 

make. 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time 

must  go, 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  them- 
selves forsake, 
And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others 

grow; 
And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe 

can  make  defence. 
Save  breed,  to  brave  him  when  he 

takes  thee  hence. 

Shakspeare. 


SONNET. 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be 

old. 
For  as  you  were,  when  first  your  eye 

I  eyed, 
Such  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three 

winters  cold 
Have  from  the  forest    shook  three 

summers'  pride; 
Three  beauteous  springs  to   yellow 

autumn  turned. 
In  process    of  the  seasons   have  I 

seen. 
Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot 

Junes  burned. 
Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh  which  yet 

are  green. 
Ah !  yet  doth  beauty,  like   a   dial- 
hand, 
Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace 

perceived ; 
So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks 

still  doth  stand, 
Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  maybe 

deceived. 
For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou 

age  unbred, 
Ere  you  were  born,  was  beauty's 

summer  dead. 

Shakspeare. 

Truth  needs  no  color  with  his  color 

fixed, 
Beauty  no  pencil,  beauty's  truth  to 

lay; 
But  best  is  best,  if  never  intermix'd. 
Shakspeare. 

HYMN  TO  THE  GRACES. 

When  I  love,  as  some  have  told, 
Love  I  shall  when  I  am  old, 
O  ye  Graces !  make  me  fit 
For  the  welcoming  of  it. 
Clean  my  rooms  as  temples  be, 
To  entertain  that  deity ; 
Give  me  words  wherewith  to  woo, 
Suppling  and  successful  too ; 
Winning  postures,  and  withal, 
Manners  each  way  musical ; 
Sweetnesse  to  allay  my  sour 
And  unsmooth  behavior : 
For  I  know  you  have  the  skill 
Vines  to  prune,  though  not  to  kill ; 
And  of  any  wood  ye  see, 
You  can  make  a  Mercury. 

Heurick. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


87 


SON^G. 

How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair, 

Which  we  no  sooner  see, 

But  with  tlie  Hnes  and  outward  air 

Our  senses  taken  be. 

We  wisli  to  see  it  still,  and  prove 

Wliat  ways  we  may  deserve ; 
We  court,  we  praise,  we  more  than 
love, 

We  are  not  grieved  to  serve. 

Ben  Jonson. 


MY  CHARMEK. 

Sweetness,  truth,  and  every  grace 
Which   time  and  use   Are  wont  to 

teach. 
The  eye  may  in  a  moment  reach 
And  read  distinctly  in  her  face. 

Some  other  nymphs  with  colors  faint 
And  pencil  slow,  may  Cupid  paint. 
And  a  weak  heart  in  time  destroy ; 
She  has  a  stamp,  and  prints  the  boy. 
Waller. 


THE  POETRY  OF  DRESS. 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 

Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness :  — 
A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distraction,  — 


An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 
Inthralls  the  crimson  stomacher,  — 
A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 
Ribbons  to  flow  confusedly,  — 
A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the  tempestuous  petticoat,  — 
A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility,  — 
Do  more  bewitch  me,  than  when 

art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

Herbick. 


FREEDOM  IN  DRESS. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest. 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  per- 
fumed, — 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not 
found. 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face. 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace ; 
Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free,  — 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art ; 
They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my 
heart. 

Ben  Jonson. 


III. 
INTELLECTUAL. 

MEMORY.  —  INSPIRATION.  —  IMAGINATION. 
FANCY.  —  MUSIC.  —  ART.  —  MOODS. 


"Quotque  aderaut  vates,  rebar  adesse  Decs."  —  Ovid, 


"  By  pain  of  heart,  now  checked,  and  now  impelled, 
The  intellectual  power  from  words  to  things 
Went  sounding  on,  —a dim  and  perilous  way."— "WOBDSWOETH. 


{0~-*\^ 


IInTTELLECTUAL, 


THOUGHT. 

0  Messenger,  art  thou  the  king, 

or  I? 
Thou  dalliest  outside  the  palace  gate 
Till  on  thine  idle  armor  lie  the  late 
And  heavy  dews :  the  morn's  bright, 

scornful  eye 
Reminds     thee;    then,     in     subtle 

mockery, 
Thou  smilest  at  the  window  where  I 

wait, 
Who  bade  thee  ride  for    life.      In 

empty  state 
My  days  go  on,  while  false  hours 

prophesy 
Thy  quick  return;   at  last,   in  sad 

despair, 

e  to  b 

as  air; 
When   lo,  thou  stand' st  before  me 

glad  and  fleet, 
And  lay'st  undreamed-of  treasures 

at  my  feet. 
Ah!  messenger,  thy  royal  blood  to 

buy, 

1  am  too  poor.    Thou  art  the  king, 

not  I. 

H.  H. 


QUESTIONINGS. 

Hath    this     world,    without    me 

wrought. 
Other  substance  than  my  thought  ? 
Lives  it  by  my  sense  alone. 
Or  by  essence  of  its  own, 
Will  its  life,  with  mine  begun. 
Cease  to  be  when  that  is  done. 
Or  another  consciousness 
With  the  selfsame  forms  impress  ? 

Doth  yon  fire-ball,  poised  in  air, 
Hang  by  my  permission  there  ? 


Are  the  clouds  that  wander  by 
But  the  offspring  of  mine  eye, 
Born  with  every  glance  I  cast, 
Perishing  when  that  is  past? 
And  those  thousand,  thousand  eyes, 
Scattered    through    the    twinkling 

skies. 
Do  they  draw  their  life  from  mine, 
Or,  of  their  own  beauty  shine  ? 

Now  I  close  my  eyes,  my  ears, 

And  creation  disappears ; 

Yet  if  I  but  speak  the  word, 

All  creation  is  restored. 

Or — more  wonderful  —  within, 

New  creations  do  begin ; 

Hues  more  bright  and  forms  more 

rare,^ 
Than  reality  doth  wear, 
Flash  across  my  inward  sense. 
Born  of  the  mind's  omnipotence. 

Soul !  that  all  infomfiesf,  say ! 
Shall  these  glories  pass  away  ? 
Will  those  planets  cease  to  blaze 
When  these  eyes  no  longer  gaze  ? 
And  the  life  of  things  be  o'er,  J 

When  these  pulses  beat  no  more  ?^ 

Thought!   that  in  me    works    and. 

lives,  — 
Life  to  all  things  living  gives,  — 
Art  thou  not  thyself,  perchance, 
But  the  universe  in  trance  ? 
A  reflection  inly  flung 
By  that  world  thou  fanciedst  sprung 
From  thyself,  —  thyself  a  dream, — 
Of  the  world's  thinking  thou  the 

theme  ? 

Be  it  thus,  or  be  thy  birth 
From  a  source  above  the  earth,  — 
Be  thou  matter,  be  thou  mind, 
In  thee  alone  myself  I  find, 
And  through  thee  alone,  for  me, 
91 


92 


PARNASSUS. 


Hath  this  world  reality. 
Therefore,  in' thee  will  I  live, 
To  thee  all  myself  will  give. 
Losing  still,  that  I  may  find 
This  bounded  self  in  boundless  mind. 
F.  H.  Hedge. 


MEMCmY. 

In   sweet   dreams  softer  than  un- 
broken rest 

Thou  leddest    by  the    hand    thine 
infant  Hope. 

The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught 
from  thee 

The  light  of  thy  great  presence ;  and 
the  cope 
Of  the  half-attained  futurity, 
Though  deep  not  fathomless, 

Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars 
which  tremble 

O'er  the  deep  mind    of   dauntless 
infancy. 

Sure  she  was   nigher  to   heaven's 

spheres. 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing 
from 
The  illimitable  years. 

Tennyson. 


MEMORY. 


TO 


I  HEAR  thy  solemn  anthem  fall, 
Of  richest  song,  upon  my  ear. 

That  clothes  thee  in  thy  golden  pall. 
As  this  wide  sun  flows  on  the  mere. 

Away —  'tis  Autumn  in  the  land. 
Though  Summer  decks  the  green 
pine's  bough, 
Its  spires  are  plucked  by  thy  white 
hand,  — 
I  see  thee  standing  by  me  now. 

I  dress  thee  in  the  withered  leaves. 
Like  forests   when   their   day   is 
done, 

I  bear  thee  as  the  wain  its  sheaves, 
Which  crisply  rustle  in  the  sun. 

A  thousand  flowers  enchant  the  gale 
With  perfume  sweet  as  love's  first 
kiss, 


And  odors  in  the  landscape  sail. 
And  charm  the  sense  with  sudden 
bliss. 

But  Fate,  who  metes  a  different  way 
To  me,  since  I  was  falsely  sold. 

Hath  gray-haired  turned  the  sunny 
day, 
Bent  its  high  form,  and  made  it  old. 

Come  Time,  come  Death,  and  blot 
my  doom 
With  feller  woes,  if  they  be  thine ; 
Clang    back   thy   gates,  sepulchral 
tomb. 
And  match  thy  barrenness  with 
mine. 

O  moaning  wind  along  the  shore. 
How  faint    thy    sobbing  accents 
come! 
Strike  on  my  heart  with  maddest  roar. 
Thou  meet'st  no  discord  in  this 
home. 

Sear,    blistering  sun,  these  temple 
veins ; 
Blind,  icy  moon,  these  coldest  eyes ; 
And  drench  me  through,  ye  winter 
rains,  — 
Swell,  if  ye  can,  my  miseries. 

Those  dark  deep  orbs  are  meeting 
mine. 
That  white  hand  presses  on  my 
brow. 
That  soft,  sweet  smile  I  know,  'tis 
thine,  — 
I  see  thee  standing  by  me  now. 

Channing. 


FORESIGHT. 

No  man  is  the  lord  of  any  thing 

Till  he  communicate  his  parts  to 
others. 

Nor  doth  he  of  himself  know  them 
for  aught 

Till  he  behold  them  formed  in  the 
applause 

Where  they  are  extended,  which, 
like  an  arch,  reverberates 

The  voice  again ;  or  like  a  gate  of  steel. 

Fronting  the  sun,  receives  and  ren- 
ders back 

His  figure  and  his  heart. 

SpAKSPEABB, 


INTELLECTUAL. 


93 


ODE  TO  HIMSELF. 

Where  dost  thou  careless  lie 
Buried  in  ease  and  sloth  ? 

Knowledge  that  sleeps,  doth  die : 

And  this  security, 
It  is  the  common  moth 

That  eats  on  wits  and  arts,  and  so 
destroys  them  both. 

Are  all  the  Aonian  springs 
Dried  up  ?  lies  Thespia  waste  ? 

Doth  Clarius'  harp  want  strings  ? 

That  not  a  nymph  now  sings  ? 
Or  droop  they  as  disgraced 

To  see    their  seats  and  bowers  by 
chattering  pies  defaced  ? 

If  hence  thy  silence  be, 

As  'tis  too  just  a  cause,  — 
Let  this  thought  quicken  thee ; 
Minds  that  are  great  and  free 

Should  not  on  fortune  pause ; 
'Tis  crown  enough  to  virtue  still, 
her  own  applause. 

Ben  Jonson. 


NOT  EVERT  DAT   FIT   FOR 

VERSE. 

'Tis  not  every  day  that  I 
Fitted  am  to  prophesy ; 
No,  but  when  the  spirit  fills 
The  fantastic  paiinicles, 
Full  of  fire,  then  I  write 
As  the  Godhead  doth  indite. 
Thus  inraged,  my  lines  are  hurled, 
Like  the  Sibyl's  through  the  world; 
Look  how  next  the  holy  fire 
Either  slakes,  or  doth  retire ; 
So  the  fancy  cools,  till  when 
That  brave  spirit  comes  agen. 

Herbick. 


THE  PRAISE  OF  HOMER. 

O !  'tis  wondrous  much 
Though  nothing  prosed,  that  the  right 

virtuous  touch 
Of   a  well  written   soul   to   virtue 

moves. 
lifor  have  we   souls  to  purpose,  if 

their  loves 


Of   fitting    objects   be   not    so    in- 
flamed. 
How  much,  then,  were  this  king- 
dom's main  soul  maimed 
To  want  this  great  inflamer  of  all 

powers 
That  move  in  human    souls!     All 

realms  but  yours 
Are  honored  with  them,  and  hold 

blest  that  State 
That  have  his  works  to  read   and 

contemplate. 
In  which  humanity  to  her  height  is 

raised ; 
Which  all  the  world,  yet  none  enough 

hath  praised. 
Seas,  earth,  and  heaven,  he  did  in 

verse  comprise, 
Outsung  the  Muses,  and  did  equal- 
ize 
Their  King   Apollo;  being    so    far 

from  cause 
Of  princes'  light  thoughts,  that  their 

gravest  laws 
May  find  stuff  to  be  fashioned  by  his 

lines. 
Through  all  the  pomp  of  kingdoms 

still  he  shines, 
And  graceth  all  his  gracers.     Then 

let  lie 
Tour   lutes    and   viols,    and    more 

loftily 
Make   the   heroics  of  your  Homer 

sung; 
To  drums  and  trumpets  set  his  angel 

tongue ; 
And,    with    the    princely    sport    of 

hawks  you  use, 
Behold  the  kingly  flight  of  his  high 

muse. 
And  see  how,  like  the  Phoenix,  she 

renews 
Her  age  and  starry  feathers  in  your 

sun, 
Thousands  of  years  attending;  every 

one 
Blowing  the  holy  fire,  throwing  in 
Their  seasons,    kingdoms,  nations, 

that  have  been 
Subverted  in  them ;  laws,  religions, 

all 
Offered    to     change,    and     greedy 

funeral, 
Tet  still  your  Homer  lasting,  living, 

reigning. 
And  proves  how  fii-m  Truth  builds 

in  poets  feigning, 

George  Chapman, 


94 


PAENASSUS. 


SOITNET. 

ON    FIBST    LOOKING    INTO    CHAP- 
MAN'S HOMER. 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms 

of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  king- 
doms seen ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I 

been, 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been 

told 
That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as 

his  demesne : 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud 

and  bold : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the 

skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his 

ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle 

eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific,  —  and  all 

his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild 

surmise  — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

Keats. 


SOCRATES. 

^IGHT  is  fair  "Virtue's  immemorial 

friend. 
The  conscious  moon  through  eyery 

distant  age 
Has  held  a  lamp  to  Wisdom,  and  let 

fall 
On  Contemplation's  eye  her  purging 

ray. 
The  famed  Athenian,  he  who  wooed 

from  heaven 
Philosophy  the  fair,  to  dwell  with 

men, 
And  form  their  manners,  not  inflame 

their  pride ; 
While  o'er  his  head,  as  fearful  to 

molest 
His  laboring  mind,  the  stars  in  si- 
lence slide. 
And  seem  all  gazing  on  their  future 

guest, 
See  him  soliciting  his  ardent  suit, 
In  private  audience ;  all  the  livelong 

night 


Rigid  in  thought  and  motionless  he 

stands, 
Nor  quits  his  theme  or  posture,  till 

the  sun 
Disturbs     his     nobler     intellectual 

beam, 
And  gives  him  to  the  tumult  of  the 

world. 

Young. 


MORNING. 

Sleep  is  like  death,  and  after  sleep, 

The  world  seems  new  begun, 

Its  earnestness  all  clear  and  deep, 

Its  true  solution  won : 

White  thoughts  stand  luminous  and 

firm. 
Like  statues  in  the  sun. 
Refreshed       from       supersensuous 

founts. 
The  soul  to  purer  vision  mounts. 

Allingham. 


INSPIRATION. 

If  with  light  head  erect  I  sing, 
Though  all  the  Muses  lend  their  force, 
From  my  poor  love  of  any  thing, 
The  verse  is  weak  and  shallow  as  its 
source. 

But  if  with  bended  neck  I  grope, 
Listening  behind  me  for  my  wit, 
With  faith  superior  to  hope, 
More  anxious    to  keep  back    than 
forward  it ; 

Making  my  soul  accomplice  there 
Unto  the  flame  my  heart  hath  lit. 
Then  will  the  verse  forever  wear,  — 
Time  cannot  bend  the  line  which 
God  has  writ. 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 
And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before ; 
I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 
And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but 
learning's  lore. 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour. 
And  only  now  my  prime  of  life. 
Of   manhood's    strength    it   is   the 

flower, 
'Tis  peace's  end,  and  war's  begin- 
ning strife. 


INTELLECTUAL. 


95 


It  comes  in  summer's  broadest  noon, 
By  a  gray  wall,  or  some  chance  place, 
Unseasoning  time,  insulting  June, 
And  vexing  day  with  its  presuming 
face. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold 
Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath 

bought, 
Which  wooed  me  young,  and  wooed 

me  old. 
And    to    this     evening    hath    me 

brought. 

Thoreau. 


THE  POET. 

Thou  hast  learned  the  woes  of  all 

the  world 
From  thine  own  longings  and  lone 

tears. 
And  now  thy  broad  sails  are  unfurled 
And  all  men  hail  thee  with  loud 

cheers. 

The  flowing  sunlight  is  thy  home. 
The  billows  of  the  sea  are  thine. 
To  all  the  nations  shalt  thou  roam, 
Through  every  heart  thy  love  shall 
shine. 

The  subtlest  thought  that  finds  its 

goal 
Far,  far  beyond  the  horizon's  verge, — 
Oh !  shoot  it  forth  on  arrows  bold 
The  thoughts  of  men  on,  on,  to  urge. 

Toil  not   to    free    the    slave    from 

chains. 
Think  not  to  give  the  laborer  rest,  — 
Unless  rich  beauty  fill  tiie  plains 
The  free  man  wanders  still  uublest. 

All  men  can  dig  and  hew  rude  stone. 
But  thou  must  carve  the  frieze  above. 
And  columned   high  through   thee 

alone 
Shall  rise  our  frescoed  homes  of  love. 
C.  S.  T. 


INSPIRATION. 

The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her. 
Till  byhimsel'  he  learned  to  wander, 
Adown    some   trotting   burn's  me- 
ander. 


And  no  think  lang ; 
O  sweet  to  stray  and  pensiye  ponder 
A  heartfelt  sang ! 

BUENS. 


THE  FLOWER. 

How  fresh,  O  Lord,  how  sweet  and 

clean 
Are  thy  returns !  even  as  the  flowers 
in  spring ; 
To  which,  besides  their  own  de- 
mean. 
The     late-past    frosts    tributes    of 
pleasure  bring. 

Grief  melts  away 

Like  snow  in  May, 

As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing. 

Who     would     have     thought    my 

shrivelled  heart 
Could   have    recovered   greenness? 
It  was  gone 
Quite  underground ;  as  flowers  de- 
part 
To  see  their  mother  root,  when  they 
have  blown ; 

Where  they  together 
All  the  hard  weather. 
Dead  to  the  world,  keep  house  un- 
known. 

And  now  in  age  I  bud  again. 
After  so  many  deaths    I  live   and 
write ; 
I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain. 
And  relish  versing :  O  my  only  light. 
It  cannot  be 
That  I  am  he 
On  whom  thy  tempests  fell  all  night. 
Herbert. 


WRITING  VERSES. 

Just  now  I've  ta'en  a  fit  of  rhyme. 
My  bai-my  noddle's  working  prime, 
My  fancy  yerkit  up  sublime 

Wi'  hasty  summons : 
Hae  ye  a  leisure  moment's  time 

To  hear  what's  comin'  ? 

Some  rhyme  a  neebor's  name  to  lash ; 
Some    rhyme    (vain    thought!)   for 

needfu'  cash; 
Some  rhyme  to  court  the  countra 

clash, 


96 


PARNASSUS. 


An'  raise  a  din ; 
For  me,  an  aim  I  never  fash ! 
I  rhyme  for  fun. 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat, 

An'  damned  my  fortune  to  the  groat ; 

But  in  requit. 
Has  blessed  me  wi'  a  random  shot 

O'  countra  wit. 

Burns. 


THE  MUSE. 

The  Muse  doth  tell  me  where  to  bor- 
row 
Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow ; 
Makes  the  desolatest  place 
To  her  presence  be  a  grace ; 
And  the  blackest  discontents 
Be  her  fairest  ornaments. 
In  my  former  days  of  bliss, 
Her  divine  skill  taught  me  this, 
That,  from  every  thing  I  saw, 
I  could  some  invention  draw; 
And  raise  pleasure  to  her  height. 
Through  the  meanest  object's  sight. 
By  the  murmur  of  a  spring, 
Or  the  least  bough's  rustling, 
By  a  daisy,  whose  leaves  spread, 
Shut,  when  Titan  goes  to  bed, 
Or  a  shady  bush,  or  tree. 
She  could  more  infuse  in  me, 
Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man. 
By  her  help,  I  also  now 
Make  this  churlish  place  allow 
Some  things  that  may  sweeten  glad- 
ness, 
In  the  very  gall  of  sadness. 
The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade. 
That    these    hanging   vaults    have 

made; 
The  strange  music  of  the  waves 
Beating  on  these  hollow  caves ; 
This  black  den  which  rocks  emboss 
Overgrown  with  eldest  moss ; 
The  rude  portals  which  give  light 
More  to  terror  than  delight 
This  my  chamber  of  Neglect, 
Walled  about  with  Disrespect ; 
From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 
A  fit  object  for  despair. 
She  hath  taught  me  by  her  might 
To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 
Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss, 
I  will  cherish  thee  for  this ; 


Poesy,  thou  sweet' st  content. 
That  e'er  Heaven  to  mortals  lent, 
Though  they  as  a  trifle  leave  thee, 
Whose  dull  thoughts    cannot  con- 
ceive thee, 
Though  thovi  be  to  them  a  scorn 
Who  to  nought  but  earth  are  born ; 
Let  my  life  no  longer  be 
Than  I  am  in  love  with  thee. 

George  Wither. 


THE  POET. 

And  also,  beau  sire,  of  other  things, 
That  is,  thou  haste  no  tidings 
Of  Love's  folk,  if  they  be  glade, 
Ne  of  nothing  else  that  God  made, 
And  not  only  fro  far  countree, 
That  no  tidings  come  to  thee, 
Not  of  thy  very  neighbors, 
That  dwellen  almost  at  thy  dores, 
Thou  hearest  neither  that  ne  this, 
For  when  thy  labor  all  done  is, 
And  hast  made  all  thy  reckonings 
Instead  of  rest  and  of  new  things, 
Thou  goest    home  to  thine  house 

anone. 
And  also  dumbe  as  a  stone. 
Thou  sittest  at  another  booke, 
Till  fully  dazed  is  thy  looke, 
And  livest  thus  as  an  hermite. 

Chaucer. 


PRATER  TO  APOLLO. 

God  of  science  and  of  light, 
Apollo  through  thy  greate  might. 
This  littell  last  booke  now  thou  gie,* 
Now  that  I  will  for  maistrie. 
Here  art  potenciall  be  shewde, 
But  for  the  rime  is  light  and  lewde, 
Yet  make  it  somewhat  agreeable, 
Though  some  verse  fayle  in  a  sillable, 
And  that  I  do  no  diligence, 
To  shewe  craft,  but  sentence, 
And  if  divine  vertue  thou 
Wilt  helpe  me  to  shewe  now, 
That  in  my  heed  ymarked  is, 
Lo,  that  is  for  to  mean  en  this. 
The  House  of  Fame  for  to  discrive, — 
Thou  shalt  see  me  go  as  blive  t 
Unto  the  next  laurel  I  see 
And  kisse  it,  for  it  is  thy  tree, 
Now  enter  in  my  brest  anon. 

Chaucer. 


Guide. 


t  Quickly. 


INTELLECTUAL. 


97 


THE 


CUCKOW   AND 
NIGHTINGALE. 


THE 


I  CAME  to  a  laiind  of  white  and 

green, 
So  faire  one  had  I  never  in  heen, 
The   ground  was  green,  ypowdred 

with  daisie, 
The  flowres  and  the  groves  Hke  hy. 
All  greene  and  white,  was  nothing 

eles  seene. 

There  sate  I  downe  among  the  faire 
flowres, 

And  saw  the  birds  trip  out  of  hir 
bowrs, 

There  as  they  rested  them  all  the 
night, 

They  were  so  joyfull  of  the  dayes 
light, 

They  began  of  May  for  to  done  hon- 
ours. 

They  coud  that  service  all  by  rote, 
There  was  many  a  lovely  note, 
Some  sung  loud  as  tliey  had  plained, 
And    some  in  other  manner  voice 

yfained, 
And  some  all  out  with  the  full  throte. 

They  proyned  hem,  and  made  them 

right  gay. 
And  daunceden,  and  leapteu  on  the 

spray, 
And  evermore  two  and  two  in  fere. 
Right  so  as  they  had  chosen  them  to 

yere 
In  Februere,  upon  saint  Valentine's 

day. 

And  the  river  that  I  sate  upon, 
It  made  such  a  noise  as  it  ran, 
Accordaunt    with    the    birdes    har- 
mony, 
Methought  it  was  the  best  melody 
That  might  ben  yheard  of  any  mon. 

And  for  delite,  I  wote  never  how 
I  fell  in  such  a  slomber  and  a  swow, 
Not  all  asleepe,  ne  fully  waking. 
And  in    that    swow  me  thought  I 

heard  sing 
The  sorry  bird,  the  lewd  cuckow. 

And  that  was  on  a  tree  right  fast  by. 
But  who  was  then  evill  apaid  but  I  ? 
"Now  God"   (quod  I)  " that  died 
on  the  crois 

7 


Yeve  sorrow  on  thee,  and  on  thy 

lewde  vols. 
Full  little  joy  have  I  now  of  thy 

cry." 

And  as  I  with  the  cuckow  thus  gan 

chide, 
I  heard  in  the  next  bush  beside 
A  nightingale  so  lustely  sing. 
That  with  her  clere  voice  she  made 

ring 
Through  all  the  greene  wood  wide. 

"Ah,  good   nightingale"    (quoth  I 

then) 
"A  little  hast  thou  ben  too  longe 

hen,* 
For  here  hath  been  the  lewd  cuckow. 
And  songen  songs  rather  than  hast 

thou, 
I  pray  to  God  evil  fire  her  bren." 

But  now  I  wol  you  tell  a  wonder  thing, 
As  long  as  I  lay  in  that  swowning, 
Me  thought  I  wist  what  the  birds 

meant, 
And  what  they  said,  and  what  was 

their  intent. 
And    of    their  speech    I   had  good 

knowing. 

There  heard  I  the  nightingale  say, 
"  Now,  good  cuckow,  go  somewhere 

away, 
And  let  us  that  can  singen  dwellen 

here. 
For  every  wight  escheweth  thee  to 

hear, 
Thy  songs  be  so  elenge  in  good  fay." 

"What"    (quod   she)    "what    may 

thee  ailen  now. 
It  thinketh  me,  I  sing  as  well  as  thou. 
For  my  song  is  both  true  and  plain  e. 
And  though  I  cannot  crakell  so  in 

vaine. 
As  thou  dost  in  thy  throte,  I  wot 

never  how. 

"  And  every  wight  may  understande 

mee. 
But  nightingale  so   may  they  not 

done  thee ; 
For  thou  hast  many  a  nice  queint  cry, 
I  have  thee  heard  saine,  ocy,  ocy. 
How   might    I    know    what    that 

should  be?" 

*  Hence. 


98 


PARNASSUS. 


** Ah  foole,"  (quod  she,)  "wist  thou 

not  what  it  is 
When  that  I  say,  ocy,  ocy,  ywis  ? 
Then  meane'  I  that  I  would  wonder 

faine 
That  all  they  were  shamefully  yslaine 
That  meanen  ought  againe  love  amiss. 

"  And  also  I  would  that  all  tho  were 

dede 
That  thinks  not  in  love  their  life  to 

lede. 
For  whoso  that  wol  not  the  God  of 

love  serve, 
I  dare  well  say,  he  worthy  is  to  sterve. 
And  for  that  skill,  ocy,  ocy,  I  grede." 
Chaucer. 


STEAMBOATS,    VIADUCTS, 
AND  RAILWAYS. 

Motions  and  means,  on  land  and  sea 

at  war 
With  old  poetic  feeling,  not  for  this, 
Shall  ye,  by  poets  even,  be  judged 

amiss ! 
Nor  shall  your  presence,  howsoe'er 

it  mar 
The  loveliness  of  Nature,  prove  a 

bar 
To  the    mind's    gaining    that    pro- 
phetic sense 
Of    future    change,   that    point    of 

vision  whence 
May  be  discovered  what  in  soul  ye 

are. 
In  spite  of  all  that  beauty  may  dis- 
own 
In  your  harsh  features.  Nature  doth 

embrace 
Her  lawful  offspring  in  man's  art; 

and  Time, 
Pleased  with  your  triumphs  o'er  his 

brother  Space, 
Accepts  from  your  bold  hands  the 

proffered  crown 
Of  hope,  and  smiles  on  you  with 

cheer  sublime. 

WORDSWOBTH. 


SCALE  OF  MINDS. 

"  Here  might  I  pause,  and  bend  in 

reverence 
To    Nature,     and    the    power     of 

human  minds ; 


To  men  as  they  are   men    within 

themselves. 
How  oft  high  service  is  performed 

within. 
When  all  the  external  man  is  rude 

in  show : 
Not  like  a  temple  rich  with  pomp 

and  gold. 
But  a  mere  mountain  chapel  that 

protects 
Its  simple  worshippers  from  sun  and 

shower! 
Of  these,  said  I,  shall  be  my  song; 

of  these. 
If  future  years  mature  me  for  the  task, 
Will  I  record  the  praises,  making  verse. 
Deal  boldly  with  substantial  things, 

—  in  truth 
And  sanctity  of  passion  speak  of  these, 
That  justice  may  be  done,  obeisance, 

paid 
Where  it  is  due.     Thus  haply  shall 

I  teach. 
Inspire,  through  unadulterated  ears 
Pour  rapture,  tenderness,  and  hope ; 

my  theme 
No  other  than  the  very  heart  of  man, 
As  found  among  the  best  of  those 

who  live. 
Not  unexalted  by  religious  faith, 
Nor  uninformed  by  books,  good  books, 

though  few. 
In  Nature's  presence:  thence  may  I 

select 
Sorrow    that   is    not    sorrow,    but 

delight. 
And  miserable  love  that  is  not  pain 
To    hear  of,    for    the    glory    that 

redounds 
Therefrom    to    human    kind,   and 

what  we  are. 
Be  mine  to  follow  with  no  timid  step 
Wliere  knowledge  leads  me ;  it  shall 

be  my  pride 
That  I  have  dared  to  tread  this  holy 

ground. 
Speaking  no  dream,  but  things  oracu- 
lar. 
Matter  not  lightly  to  be  heard  by 

those 
Who  to  the  letter  of  the  outward 

promise 
Do  read  the  invisible  soul :  by  men 

adroit 
In  speech,  and  for  communion  with 

the  world 
Accomplished,  minds  whose  facul- ' 

ties  are  then 


INTELLECTUAL. 


99 


Most    active    when    they  are   most 

eloquent, 
And     elevated     most    when    most 

admired. 
Men  may  be  found  of  other  mould 

than  these ; 
Who   are    their  own  upholders,   to 

themselves 
Encouragement,    and    energy,    and 

will; 
Expressing    liveliest     thoughts     in 

lively  words. 
As  native  passion  dictates.    Others, 

too, 
There    are,    among   the    walks    of 

homely  life, 
Still  higher,  men  for  contemplation 

framed ; 
Shy,  and  unpractised  in  the  strife 

of  phrase. 
Meek  men,  whose  very  souls  perhaps 

would  sink 
Beneath  them,  summoned  to  such 

intercourse. 
Theirs  is  the  language  of  the  heav- 
ens, the  power, 
The  thought,   the  image,   and  the 

silent  joy : 
Words  are  but  under-agents  in  their 

souls ; 
When  they  are  grasping  with  their 

greatest  strength 
They  do  not  breathe  among  them; 

this  I  speak 
In  gratitude  to  God,  who  feeds  our 

hearts 
For  his  own  service,  knoweth,  lov- 

eth  us, 
When  we   are    unregarded    by  the 

world." 

Wordsworth. 


UNDER  THE    PORTRAIT    OF 
MILTON. 

Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages 
born, 

Greece,     Italy,     and    England    did 
adorn. 

The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  sur- 
passed ; 

The  next  in  majesty ;  in  both  the  last. 

The  force  of  Nature  could  no  fur- 
ther go : 

To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  for- 
mer two. 

Dryden. 


PLEASURES  OF  IMAGINATION. 

AsMemnon's  marble  harp  renowned 

of  old 
By  fabling  Nilus,  to  the  quivering 

touch 
Of  Titan's  ray,  with  each  repulsive 

string 
Consenting,    sounded    through    the 

warbling  air 
Unbidden    strains;     e'en    so     did 

Nature's  hand 
To  certain  species  of  external  things 
Attune  the  finer  organs  of  the  mind ; 
So  the  glad  impulse    of    congenial 

powers. 
Or  of  sweet  sound,  or  fair-propor- 
tioned fonn, 
The  grace  of  motion,  or  the  bloom 

of  light. 
Thrills  through  imagination's  tender 

frame. 
From  nerve  to  nerve ;  all  naked  and 

alive 
They  catch  the  spreading  rays ;  till 

now  the  soul 
At    length   discloses   every  tuneful 

spring, 
To  that  harmonious  movement  from 

without, 
Responsive.     Then  the  inexpressive 

strain 
Diffuses    its    enchantment;  Fancy 

dreams 
Of   sacred    fountains    and    Elysian 

groves. 
And  vales  of  bliss;  the  Intellectual 

Power 
Bends    from   his    awful    throne    a 

wondering  ear. 
And    smiles;    the    passions    gently 

soothed  away. 
Sink  to  divine  repose,  and  love  and  joy 
Alone    are    waking;   love    and    joy 

serene 
As  airs  that   fan   the   summer.     O 

attend, 
Whoe'er  thou  art  whom  these  de- 
lights can  touch. 
Whose  candid  bosom  the  refining  love 
Of  nature  wanns;   O,  listen  to  my 

song, 
And  I  will  guide  thee  to  her  favorite 

walks, 
And  teach  thy  solitude  her  voice  to 

hear. 
And  point  her  loveliest  features  to 

thy  view. 


100 


PARNASSUS. 


Say,   why  was   man   so   eminently 

raised 
Amid    the    vast  creation;   why  or- 
dained 
Through  life  and  death  to  dart  his 

piercing  eye, 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  limits  of 

his  frame, 
But  that  the  Omnipotent  might  send 

him  forth 
In   sight  of   mortal  and   immortal 

powers, 
As  on  a  boundless  theatre  to  run 
The  great  career  of  justice ;  to  exalt 
His  generous    aim    to   all    diviner 

deeds ; 
To  chase  each  partial  purpose  from 

his  breast ; 
And  through  the  mists  of  passion 

and  of  sense. 
And    through   the    tossing   tide  of 

chance  and  pain, 
To  hold  his  course  unfaltering,  while 

the  voice 
Of  Truth  and  Virtue,  up  the  steep 

ascent 
Of   nature,  calls   him  to    his  high 

reward, 
The  applauding   smile  of   heaven? 

else  wherefore  bums. 
In  mortal  bosoms,  this  unquenched 

hope 
That  breathes  from  day  to  day  sub- 

limer  things. 
And  mocks  possession?  wherefore 

darts  the  mind. 
With  such  resistless  ardor  to  embrace 
Majestic    forms;    impatient    to    be 

free, 
Spurning  the  gross  control  of  wilful 

might ; 
Proud  of  the  strong  contention  of 

her  toils; 
Proud  to  be  daring  ?  Who  but  rather 

turns 
To  heaven's  broad  fire  his  uncon- 
strained view. 
Than  to  the  glimmering  of  a  waxen 

flame? 
Who  that,  from  Alpine  heights,  his 

laboring  eye 
Shoots  round  the  wide  horizon  to 

survey 
Nilus  or  Ganges  rolling  his  broad  tide 
Through  mountains,  plains,  through 

empires  black  with  shade, 
And  continents  of  sand, — will  turn 

his  gaze 


To  mark  the  windings  of  a  scanty 

rill 
That  murmurs  at   his    feet?    The 

high-born  soul 
Disdains  to  rest  her  heaven-aspiring 

wing 
Beneath  its  native  quarry.    Tired  of 

earth 
And  this  diurnal  scene,  she  springs 

aloft. 
Through  fields  of   air  pursues  the 

flying  storm ; 
Kides    on    the    volleyed    lightning 

through  the  heavens ; 
Or,  yoked  with  whirlwinds  and  the 

northern  blast. 
Sweeps  the  long  track  of  day.    Then 

high  she  soars 
The  blue    profound,  and  hovering 

o'er  the  sun 
Beholds  him  pouring  the  redundant 

stream 
Of   light:   beholds  the  unrelenting 

sway 
Bend  the  reluctant  planets  to  absolve 
The  fated  rounds  of  time.    Thence 

far  effused 
She  darts  her  swiftness  up  the  long 

career 
Of  devious  comets ;  through  its  burn- 
ing signs 
Exulting  circles  the  perennial  wheel 
Of  nature,  and  looks  back  on  all  the 

stars. 
Whose  blended  light,  as  with  a  milky 

zone. 
Invests  the  orient.    Now  amazed  she 

views 
The  empyreal  waste,  where  happy 

spirits  hold,   ' 
Beyond  this  concave  heaven,  their 

calm  abode ; 
And  fields  of  radiance,  whose  unfad- 
ing light 
Has  travelled  the  profound  six  thou- 
sand years, 
Nor  yet  arrived  In  sight  of  mortal 

things. 

Nature's  care,  to  all  her  children 

just. 
With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler 

state. 
Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 
Will  deign  to  use  them.    His    the 

city's  pomp, 
The    rural    honors   his;    whate'er 

adorns 


INTELLECTUAL. 


101 


The  princely  dome,  the  column  and 
the  arch, 

The  breathing  marbles  and  the  sculp- 
tured gold, 

Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  nar- 
row claim. 

His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.  For  him 
the  Spring 

Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken 
gem 

His  lucid  leaves  unfolds ;  for  him  the 
hand 

Of  Autumn  tinges  every  fertile 
branch 

With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like 
the  morn. 

Each  passing  Hour  sheds  tribute 
from  her  wings. 

And  still  new  beauties  meet  his 
lonely  walk, 

And  loves  unf elt  attract  him. 

Look,  then,  abroad  through  Nature, 
to  the  range 

Of  planets,  suns,  and  adamantine 
spheres, 

Wheeling  unshaken  through  the 
Void  immense, 

And  speak,  O  man !  does  this  capa- 
cious scene 

With  half  that  kindling  majesty 
dilate 

Thy  strong  conception,  as  when 
Brutus  rose 

Refulgent  from  the  stroke  of  Caesar's 
fate. 

Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots ;  and  his 
arm 

Aloft  extending,  like  eternal  Jove, 

When  guilt  brings  down  the  thun- 
der, called  aloud 

On  Tully's  name,  and  shook  his 
crimson  steel. 

And  bade  the  Father  of  his  Country, 
hail ! 

For  lo!  the  tyrant  prostrate  in  the 
dust. 

And  Rome  again  is  free ! 

Akenside. 


FAME. 

Her  house  is  all  of  Echo  made 
Where  never  dies  the  sound ; 

And  as  her  brows  the  clouds  invade. 
Her  feet  do  strike  the  ground. 

Ben  Jonson. 


ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king 
By  this    still   hearth,    among  these 

barren  crags. 
Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete 

and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and 

know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees:  all  times  I  have 

enjoyed 
Greatly,  have  suffered  greatly,  both 

with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone ;  on  shore, 

and  when 
Through  scudding  drifts  the  rainy 

Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea:  I  am  become  a 

name; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry 

heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities 

of  men 
And    manners,    climates,    councils, 

governments. 
Myself  not  least,  but  honored  of  them 

all; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my 

peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy 

Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  where- 
through 
Gleams  that  untravelled  world,  whose 

margin  fades 
Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an 

end. 
To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in 

use! 
As  though  to  breathe  were  life.     Life 

piled  on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains:   but   every  hour  is 

saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something 

more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it 

were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and 

hoard  myself, 
And    this    gray  spirit    yearning    in 

desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking 

star 


102 


PAKNASSUS. 


Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human 

thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telema- 

chus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the 

isle  — 
Well  loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This    labor,    by  slow    prudence    to 

make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  through  soft  de- 
grees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the 

good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the 

sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
Wlien  I    am  gone.    He  works    his 

work,  I  mine. 
There    lies    the    port:  the  vessel 

puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas. 

My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toiled,  and  wrought, 

and  thought  with  me,  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and 

opposed 
Free  hearts,  free    foreheads,  —  you 

and  I  are  old ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his 

toil; 
Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere 

the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet 

be  done 
Not   unbecoming   men  that  strove 

with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the 

rocks : 
The  long  day  wanes :  the  slow  moon 

climbs:  the  deep 
Moans    round    with    many   voices. 

Come,  my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer 

world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order, 

smite 
The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  pur- 
pose holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the 

baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  maybe  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us 

down: 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy 

Isles, 


And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom 

we  knew. 
Though  much  is  taken,  much  abides ; 

and  though 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which 

in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which 

we  are,  we  are ; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but 

strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not 

to  yield. 

Tennyson. 

KING  LEAR. 

O  Heavens, 
If   you  do  love  old    men,  if  your 

sweet  sway 
Allow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old, 
Make  it  your  cause ;  send  down,  and 


take  my  part ! 


Shakspeare. 


Rumble   thy  belly-full!    Spit,  fire  J 

spout,  rain! 
Nor  rain,   wind,   thunder,  fire,  are 

my  daughters  : 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with 

unkindness, 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  called  you 

children; 
You  owe  me  no  subscription;  why 

then,  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure ;  here  I  stand 

your  slave, 
A  poor  infirm,  weak,  and  despised 

old  man ;  — 
But  yet  I  call  you  servile  ministers, 
That    have    with    two    pernicious 

daughters  joined  ' 

YouY  high-engendered  battles  'gainst 

a  head 
So  old  and  white  as  this.    O !  O !  'tis 

foul! 

Shakspeake. 

OUTLINE. 

Of    Truth,   of    Grandeur,   Beauty, 

Love,  and  Hope, 
And  melancholy  Fear  subdued  by 

Faith ; 
Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress; 
Of  moral  strength,  and  intellectual 

power ; 


INTELLECTITAL. 


lOS 


Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread ; 
Of  the  individual  Mind  that  keeps 

her  own 
Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 
To  Conscience  only,   and  the   law 

supreme 
Of  that  Intelligence  which  governs 

all  — 
I  sing :  —  "fit  audience  let  me  find, 

though  few!" 
So  prayed,   more  gaining  than   he 

asked,  the  Bard 
In  holiest  mood.   Urania,  I  shall  need 
Thy  guidance,  or  a  greater  Muse,  if 

such 
Descend  to  earth  or  dwell  in  highest 

heaven ! 
For  I  must  tread  on  shadowy  ground, 

must  sink 
Deep,  and,  aloft  ascending,  breathe 

in  worlds 
To  which  the  heaven  of  heavens  is 

but  a  veil. 
All  strength,  all  terror,  single  or  in 

bands, 
That  ever  was  put  forth  in  personal 

form  — 
Jehovah,  with  his  thunder,  and  the 

choir 
Of  shouting  Angels,  and  the  empy- 
real thrones,  — 
I  pass  them  unalarmed.    Not  Chaos, 

not 
The  darkest  pit  of  lowest  Erebus, 
Nor    aught     of     blinder    vacancy, 

scooped  out 
By  help  of  dreams,  can  breed  such 

fear  and  awe 
As  fall  upon  us  often  when  we  look 
Into  our  Minds,  into  the  Mind  of 

Man,  — 
My  haunt,  and  the  main  region  of 

my  song. 
Beauty  —  a  living  Presence  of  the 

.  earth, 
Surpassing  the  most  fair  id<^al  Forms 
Which  craft  of  delicate  Spirits  doth 

compose 
From  earth's  materials  — waits  upon 

my  steps ; 
Pitches  her  tents  before  me  as  I  move, 
An  hourly  neighbor.     Paradise,  and 

groves 
Elysian,    Fortunate    Fields,  —  like 

those  of  old 
Sought  in  the  Atlantic  main,  —  why 

should  they  be 
A  history  only  of  departed  things, 


Or  a  mere  fiction  of  what  never  was  ? 

For  the  discerning  intellect  of  Man, 

When  wedded  to  this  goodly  uni- 
verse 

In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find 
these 

A  simple  produce  of  the  common 
day. 

I,  long  before  the  blissful  hour  ar- 
rives, 

Would  chant,  in  lonely  peace,  the 
spousal  verse 

Of  this  great  consummation :  —  and, 
by  words 

Wliich  speak  of  nothing  more  than 
what  we  are, 

Would  I  arouse  the  sensual  from 
their  sleep 

Of  Death,  and  win  the  vacant  and 
the  vain 

To  noble  raptures ;  while  my  voice 
proclaims 

How  exquisitely  the  individual  Mind 

(And  the  progressive  powers,  per- 
haps no  less, 

Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  exter- 
nal World 

Is  fitted :  —  and  how  exquisitely, 
too  — 

(Theme  this  but  little  heard  of 
among  men  — ) 

The  external  World  is  fitted  to  the 
Mind; 

And  the  creation  (by  no  lower  name 

Can  it  be  called)  which  they  with 
blended  might 

Accomplish :  —  this  is  our  high  argu- 
ment. 

Such  grateful  haunts  foregoing,  if  I 
oft 

Must  turn  elsewhere,  to  travel  near 
the  tribes 

And  fellowships  of  men,  and  see  ill 
sights 

Of  madding  passions  mutually  in- 
flamed ; 

Must  hear  Himaanity  in  fields  and 
groves 

Pipe  solitary  anguish ;  or  must  hang 

Brooding  above  the  fierce  confede- 
rate storm 

Of  sorrow,  barricaded  evermore 

Within  the  walls  of  cities,  —  may 
these  sounds 

Have  their  authentic  comment ;  that 
even  these 

Hearing, -I  be  not  downcast  or  for- 
lorn ! 


104 


PABNASSUS. 


Descend,  prophetic  spirit!  that  in- 

spir'st 
The  human  Soul  of  universal  earth, 
Dreaming  on  things  to  come;    and 

dost  possess 
A  metropolitan  temple  in  the  hearts 
Of  mighty  Poets :  upon  me  bestow 
A  gift  of  genuine  insight ;  that  my 

Song 
With   star-like  virtue    in   its  place 

may  shine, 
Shedding  benignant  influence,  and 

secure. 
Itself,  from  all  malevolent  effect 
Of  those  mutations  that  extend  their 

sway 
Throughout  the  nether  sphere !  And 

if  with  this 
I  mix  more  lowly  matter ;  with  the 

thing 
Contemplated,    describe    the    Mind 

and  Man 
Contemplating;  and  who,  and  what 

he  was,  — 
The  transitory  Being  that  beheld 
This  Vision ;  when  and  where,  and 

how  he  lived;  — 
Be  not  this  labor  useless.    If  such 

theme 
May  sort  with  highest  objects,  then 

—  dread  Power ! 
Whose  gracious  favor  is  the  primal 

source 
Of  all  illumination,  — may  my  Life 
Express  the  image  of  a  better  time. 
More  wise  desires,  and  simpler  man- 
ners; nurse 
My  Heart  in  genuine  freedom:  —  all 

pure  thoughts 
Be  with  me ;  —  so  shall  thy  unfailing 

love 
Guide  and  support  and  cheer  me  to 

the  end  I 

WOBDSWORTH. 


COMUS,  A  MASK. 

THE     FIBST     SCENE     DISCOVERS     A 
WILD  WOOD. 

The  Attendant  Spirit  descends  or 
enters. 

Before  the  starry  threshold  of 
Jove's  court 

My  mansion  is,  where  those  immor- 
tal shapes 


Of  bright  aerial  spirits  live  insphered 

In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene 
air. 

Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim 
spot 

Which   men  call    Earth,   and  with 
low-thoughted  care 

Confined  and  pestered  in  this  pinfold 
here. 

Strive  to  keep  up  a  frail  and  feverish 
being. 

Unmindful  of  the  crown  that  virtue 
gives. 

After  this  mortal  change,  to  her  true 
servants. 

Amongst   the    enthroned    Gods    on 
sainted  seats. 

Yet  some  there  be  that  by  due  steps 
aspire 

To  lay  their  just  hands  on  that  gol- 
den key 

That  opes  the  palace  of  eternity; 

To  such  my  errand  is ;  and,  but  for 
such, 

I  would  not  soil  these  pure  ambro- 
sial weeds 

With  the  rank  vapors  of  this  sin- 
worn  mould. 
But  to  my  task.    Neptune,  besides 
the  sway 

Of  every  salt  flood,  and  each  ebbing 
stream. 

Took  in  by  lot  'twixt  high  and  nether 
Jove 

Imperial  rule  of  all  the  sea-girt  isles, 

That  like  to  rich  and  various  gems 
inlay 

The  unadorned  bosom  of  the  deep ; 

Which    he,   to    grace  his  tributary 
Gods, 

By  course  commits  to  several  govern- 
ment, 

And  gives  them  leave  to  wear  their 
sapphire  crowns. 

And  wield  their  little  tridents :  but 
this  Isle, 

The  greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the 
main. 

He  quarters  to  his  blue-haired  dei- 
ties; 

And  all  this  tract  that  fronts   the 
falling  sun 

A  noble  Peer  of  mickle  trust  and 
power 

Has  in  his  charge,  witli  tempered 
awe  to  guide 

An  old  and  haughty  nation  proud  iu 
arms: 


INTELLECTUAL. 


106 


Where  his  fair  offspring,  nursed  in 

princely  lore, 
Are  coming  to  attend  their  father's 

state, 
And  new-intrusted  sceptre ;  but  their 

way 
Lies  through  the  perplexed  paths  of 

this  drear  wood. 
The  nodding  horror  of  whose  shady 

brows 
Threats  the  forlorn  and  wandering 

passenger ; 
And  here  their  tender   age  might 

suffer  peril, 
But  that  by  quick  command  from 

sovereign  Jove 
I  was  despatched  for  their  defence 

and  guard ; 
And  listen  why,  for  I  will  tell  you 

now 
What  never  yet  was  heard  in  tale  or 

song, 
From  old  or  modem  bard,  in  hall  or 

bower. 
Bacchus,  that  first  from  out  the 

purple  grape 
Crushed  the  sweet  poison  of  misused 

wine, 
After  the  Tuscan  mariners   trans- 
formed, 
Coasting  the  Tyrrhene  shore,  as  the 

winds  listed. 
On  Circe's  island  fell:  who  knows 

not  Circe, 
The    daughter  of   the    sun,  whose 

charmed  cup 
Whoever    tasted,    lost   his    upright 

shape, 
And  downward  fell  into  a  grovelling 

swine  ? 
This  Nymph  that  gazed  upon  his 

clustering  locks 
With  ivy  berries  wreathed,  and  his 

blithe  youth, 
Had  by  him,  ere  he  parted  thence,  a 

son 
Much  like  his  father,  but  his  mother 

more, 
Whom  therefore  she  brought  up,  and 

Comus  named 
Who  ripe,  and  frolic  of  his  full  grown 

age, 
Eoving    the     Celtic    and     Iberian 

fields. 
At  last  betakes  him  to  this  ominous 

wood, 
And  in  thick  shelter  of  black  shades 

imbowered, 


Excels  his  mother  at   her  mighty 
art. 

Offering  to  every  weary  traveller 

His  orient  liquor  in  a  crystal  glass. 

To  quench  the  drouth  of  Phoebus; 
which  as  they  taste, 

(For  most  do  taste  through  fond  in- 
temperate thirst) 

Soon  as  the  potion  works,  their  hu- 
man count' nance, 

The  express  resemblance  of  the  Gods, 
is  changed 

Into  some  brutish  form  of  wolf,  or 
bear, 

Or  ounce,  or  tiger,  hog,  or  bearded 
goat, 

All  other  parts  remaining  as  they 
were; 

And  they,  so  perfect  is  their  mis- 
ery, 

Not  once  perceive  their  foul  disfig- 
urement, 

But  boast  themselves  more  comely 
than  before, 

And   all    their  friends    and    native 
home  forget. 

To  roll  with  pleasure  in  a  sensual 
sty. 

Therefore,  when  any  favored  of  high 
Jove 

Chances  to  pass  through  this  adven- 
turous glade. 

Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a  glancing 
star 

I  shoot  from  heaven,  to  give  him  safe 
convoy, 

As  now  I  do :  But  first  I  must  put 
off 

These  my  sky  robes  spun  out  of  Iris' 
woof, 

And  take  the  weeds  and  likeness  of 
a  swain, 

That  to  the  service  of  this  house 
belongs, 

Who  with  his  soft  pipe,  and  smooth- 
dittied  song, 

Well  knows  to  still  the  wild  winds 
when  they  roar, 

And  hush  the  waving  woods,  nor  of 
less  faith, 

And  in  this  office  of  his  mountain 
watch. 

Likeliest,  and  nearest  to  the  present 
aid 

Of  this  occasion.    But  I  hear  the 
tread 

Of  hateful  steps ;  I  mUst  be  viewless 
now. 


106 


PARNASSUS. 


CoMUS  enters  with  a  charming-rod 
in  one  hand,  his  cjlass  in  the  other; 
with  him  a  rout  of  monsters,  headed 
like  sundry  sorts  of  wild  beasts,  but 
otherwise  like  men  and  women,  their 
apparel  glistering  ;  they  come  in 
making  a  riotous  and  unruly  noise, 
with  torches  in  their  hands. 

Comv^.  —  The    star  that  bids  the 
shepherd  fold, 
Now  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold ; 
And  the  gilded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay- 
In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream ; 
And  the  slope  sun  his  upward  beam 
Shoots  against  the  dusky  pole, 
Pacing  toward  the  other  goal 
Of  his  chamber  in  the  east. 
Meanwhile  welcome  Joy,  and  Feast, 
Midnight  Shout  and  Revelry, 
Tipsy  Dance  and  Jollity. 
Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine, 
Dropping  odors,  dropping  wine. 
Rigor  now  has  gone  to  bed, 
And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head. 
Strict  Age,  and  sour  Severity, 
With  their  grave  saws  in  slumber  lie. 
We  that  are  of  purer  fire 
Imitate  the  starry  quire, 
Who    in     their     nightly    watchful 

spheres 
Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and 

years. 
The  sounds  and  seas,  with  all  their 

finny  drove. 
Now  to  the  moon  in  wavering  mor- 

rice  move ; 
And  on  the  tawny  sands  and  shelves 
Trip  the  pert  fairies  and  the  dapper 

elves. 
By  dimpled  brook,  and  fountain  brim. 
The  wood-nymphs  decked  with  dai- 
sies trim. 
Their  merry   wakes    and   pastimes 

keep; 
What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep  ? 
Night  hath  better  sweets  to  prove, 
Venus  now  wakes,  and  wakens  Love. 
Come,  let  us  our  rites  begin, 
'Tis  only  daylight  that  makes  sin. 
Which  these  dun  shades  will  ne'er 

report. 
Hail,  Goddess  of  nocturnal  sport, 
Dark-veil'd     Cotytto!     t'whom    the 

secret  flame 
Of  midnight  torches  burns;  myste- 
rious dame, 


That  ne'er  art  called,  but  when  the 
dragon  womb 

Of  Stygian  darkness  spets  her  thick- 
est gloom. 

And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air ; 

Stay  thy  cloudy  ebon  chair, 

Wherein  thou  rid'st  with  Hecate,  and 
befriend 

Us  thy  vowed  priests,  till  utmost  end 

Of  all  thy  dues  be  done,  and  none 
left  out, 

Ere  the  babbling  eastern  scout, 

The  nice  Morn,  on  the  Indian  steep 

From  her  cabined  loophole  peep, 

And  to  the  telltale  sun  descry 

Our  concealed  solemnity. 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the 
ground 

In  a  light  fantastic  round. 

THE   MEASUBE. 

Break  off,  break  off,  I  feel  the  differ- 
ent pace 
Of  some  chaste  footing  near  about 

this  ground. 
Run  to  your  shrouds,  within  these 

brakes  and  trees ; 
Our  number  may    affright:    Some 

virgin  sure 
(For  so  I  can  distinguish  by  mine 

art) 
Benighted  in  these  woods.    Now  to 

my  charms. 
And  to  my  wily  trains ;  I  shall  ere 

long 
Be  well  stocked  with  as  fair  a  herd  as 

grazed 
About   my  mother  Cire^.    Thus   I 

hurl 
My  dazzling  spells  into  the  spungy 

air. 
Of  power  to  cheat  the  eye  with  blear 

illusion, 
And  give  it  false  presentments,  lest 

the  place 
And  my  quaint  habits  breed  aston 

ishment. 
And  put  the  damsel  to  suspicious 

flight, 
Wliich  must  not  be,  for  that's  against 

my  course : 
I,  under  fair  pretence  of    friendly 

ends. 
And  well-placed  words   of    glozing. 

courtesy 
Baited  with  reasons  not  unplausible, 
Wind  me  into  the  easy-hearted  man. 


And  hug  him  into  snares, 
once  her  eye 

Hath  met  the  virtue  of  this  magic 
dust, 

I  shall   appear  some  harmless  vil- 
lager, 

Whom  thrift    keeps  up  about    his 
country  gear. 

But  here   she  comes;   I  fairly  step 
aside, 

And  hearken,  if  I  may,  her  business 
here. 

THE  LADY  ENTERS. 

This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear 

be  true, 
My  best  guide  now;  methought  it 

was  the  sound 
Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment, 
Such  as  the  jocund  flute,  or  game- 
some pipe 
Stirs  up  among  the  loose  unlettered 

hinds. 
When  for  their  teeming  flocks,  and 

granges  full, 
In  wanton  dance,  they  praise  the 

bounteous  Pan, 
And  thank  the  Gods  amiss.     I  should 

be  loath 
To  meet  the  rudeness,  and  swilled 

insolence 
Of    such    late    wassailers;    yet    O! 

where  else 
Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet 
In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled 

wood? 
My  brothers,   when    they  saw   me 

wearied  out 
With  this  long  way,  resolving  here 

to  lodge 
Under  the  spreading  favor  of  these 

pines. 
Stepped,  as  they  said,  to  the  next 

thicket  side 
To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling 

fruit 
As  the  kind,  hospitable  woods  pro- 
vide. 
They  left  me  then,  when  the  gray- 
hooded  Even, 
Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed. 
Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of 

Phoebus'  wain. 
But  where  they  are,  and  why  they 

came  not  back. 
Is  now  the  labor  of  my  thoughts; 

'tis  likeliest 


INTELLECTUAL. 
When 


107 


They  had  engaged  their  wandering 

steps  too  far ; 
And    envious    darkness,    ere    they 

could  return. 
Had  stole  them  from  me:    else,  O 

thievish  Night, 
Why  shouldst  thou,  but  for  some 

felonious  end. 
In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up 

the  stars. 
That  Nature  hung  in  heaven,  and 

filled  their  lamps 
With  everlasting  oil,  to   give    due 

light 
To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveller  ? 
This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may 

guess. 
Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud 

mirth 
Was  rife,  and  perfect  in  my  listening 

ear. 
Yet  nought  but  single  darkness  do  I 

find. 
What  might  this  be?    A  thousand 

fantasies 
Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory, 
Of    calling  shapes,   and    beckoning 

shadows  dire. 
And  airy  tongues,  that  syllable  men's 

names 
On  sands,   and  shores,   and  desert 

wildernesses. 
These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but 

not  astound 
The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks 

attended 
By  a  strong-siding  champion,  Con- 
science. — 

0  welcome,  pure-eyed  Faith,  white-. 

handed  Hope, 
Thou    hovering    Angel,    girt   with 

golden  wings, 
And    thou,    unblemished    form    of 

Chastity ! 

1  see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 
That  he,  the  Supreme  Good,  t'whom 

all  things  ill 

Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  ven- 
geance. 

Would  send  a  glistering  guardian,  if 
need  were, 

To  keep  my  life  and  honor  unas- 
sailed. 

Was  I  deceived,  or  did  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the 
night? 

I  did  not  err,  there  does  a  sable 
cloud 


108 


PARNASSUS. 


Turn  forth  het  silver  lining  on  the 

night, 
And  casts  a  gleam  over  this  tufted 

grove : 
I  cannot  halloo  to  my  brothers,  but 
Such  noise  as    I  can  make  to   be 

heard  farthest 
I'll  venture,  for  my  new  enlivened 

spirits 
Prompt  me;  and  they  perhaps  are 

not  far  off. 

SONG. 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that 
liv'st  unseen 
Within  thy  airy  shell, 
By  slow  Meander's  margenfc  green. 
And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale. 
Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourn- 

eth  well ; 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are  ? 
O,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 
Tell  me  but  where. 
Sweet  queen  of  parley,  daughter  of 

the  sphere ! 
So  mayst  thou  be  translated  to  the 
skies. 
And  give  resounding  grace   to  all 
heaven's  harmonies. 

Enter  Comus. 

Com.  —  Can  any  mortal  mixture  of 
earth's  mould 

Breathe  such  divine  enchanting  rav- 
ishment ? 

Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that 
breast. 

And  with  these  raptures  moves  the 
vocal  air 

To  testify  his  hidden  residence : 

How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the 
wings 

Of  silence,  through  the  empty- 
vaulted  night. 

At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven 
down 

Of  darkness  till  it  smiled!  I  have 
oft  heard 

My  mother  Circ^  with  the  Sirens 
three. 

Amidst  the  flowery-kirtled  Naiades, 

Culling  their  potent  herbs,  and  bale- 
ful drugs. 


Wlio,  as  tk3y  sung,  would  take  the 

prisoned  soul, 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium ;  Scylla  wept. 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into 

attention. 
And  fell  Charybdis  murmured  soft 

applause : 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lulled 

the  sense, 
And  in  sweet  madness  robbed  it  of 

itself; 
But  such  a  sacred  and  homefelt  de- 
light. 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  heard  till  now.    I'll  speak  to 

her, 
And  she  shall  be  my  queen.    Hail, 

foreign  wonder ! 
Whom  certain  these  rough  shades 

did  never  breed, 
Unless   the   goddess  that    in  rural 

shrine 
Dwell' St  here  with  Pan,  or  Silvan,  by 

blest  song 
Forbidding  every  bleak  unkindly  fog 
To  touch  the  prosperous  growth  of 

this  tall  wood. 
Lady. — Nay,  gentle  Shepherd,  ill 

is  lost  that  praise 
That    is    addressed  to  unattending 

ears; 
Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme 

shift 
How  to  regain  my  severed  company. 
Compelled  me  to  awake  the  cour- 
teous Echo 
To  give  me  answer  from  her  mossy 

couch. 
Com.  —  What  chance,  good  Lady, 

hath  bereft  you  thus  ? 
Lady.  —  Dim    darkness,  and  this 

leafy  labyrinth. 
Com.  —  Could  that  divide  you  from 

near-ushering  guides  ? 
Lady.  —  They  left  me  weary  on  a 

grassy  turf. 
Com.  —  By  falsehood,  or  discourte- 
sy, or  why  ? 
Lady.  —  To  seek  i'  the  valley  some 

cool  friendly  spring. 
Com.  —  And  left  your  fair  side  all 

unguarded.  Lady? 
Lady.  —  They  were  but  twain,  and 

purposed  quick  return. 
Com. — Perhaps  forestalling  night 

prevented  them. 
Lady.  —  How  easy  my  misfortune 

is  to  hit ! 


INTELLECTUAL. 


109 


Com.  —  Imports  their  loss  beside 

the  present  need  ? 
Lady.  —  No  less  than  if  I  should 

my  brothers  lose. 
Com.  Were  they  of  manly  prime, 

or  youthful  bloom  ? 
Lady.  —  As  smooth  as  Hebe's  their 

unrazored  lips. 
Com.  —  Two  such  I  saw,  what  time 
the  labored  ox 

In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow 
came, 

And  the  swinked  hedger  at  his  sup- 
per sat ; 

I  saw  them  under  a  green  mantling 
vine 

That  crawls  along  the  side  of  yon 
small  hill. 

Plucking  ripe  clusters  from  the  ten- 
der shoots ; 

Their  port  was  more  than  human, 
as  they  stood: 

I  took  it  for  a  faery  vision 

Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  ele- 
ment, 

That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live. 

And  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds.    I 
was  awestruck, 

And  as  I  passed,  I  worshipped:  if 
those  you  seek. 

It  were  a  journey  like  the  path  to 
heaven 

To  help  you  find  them. 
Lady.  —  Gentle  Villager, 

What  readiest  way  would  bring  me 
to  that  place  ? 
Com.  —  Due  west  it  rises  from  this 

shrubby  point. 
Lady.  —  To   find    that   out,  good 
shepherd,  I  suppose 

In  such  a  scant  allowance  of  star- 
light. 

Would  overtask  the  best  land-pilot's 
art. 

Without   the   sure    guess  of    well- 
practised  feet. 
Com.  —  I    know   each    lane,  and 
every  alley  green. 

Dingle  or  bushy  dell,  of  this  wild 
wood, 

And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to 
side. 

My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neigh- 
borhood ; 

And  if  your  stray  attendants  be  yet 
lodged 

Or  shroud   within    these    limits,  I 
shall  know 


Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low-roosted 
lark 

From  her  thatched  pallet  rouse:  if 
otherwise, 

I  can  conduct  you,  Lady,  to  a  low 

But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be 
safe 

Till  further  quest. 
Lady. — Shepherd,  I  take  thy  word. 

And  trust  thy  honest  offered  courte- 
sy, 

Which  oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly 
sheds 

With  smoky  rafters,  than  in  tap'stry 
halls 

And  courts  of  princes,  where  it  first 
was  named, 

And  yetis  most  pretended :  in  a  place 

Less  warranted  than   this,   or  less 
secure, 

I  cannot  be,  that  I  should  fear  to 
change  it. 

Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square 
my  trial 

To  my  proportioned  strength.    Shep- 
herd, lead  on. 

Enter  the  Two  Brothers. 

1  Br.  —  Unmuffle,  ye  faint  stars, 

and  thou,  fair  moon. 
That  wont' St  to  love  the  traveller's 

benison. 
Stoop  thy  pale  visage  through  an 

amber  cloud, 
And  disinherit  Chaos,  that  reigns 

here 
In  double  night  of  darkness  and  of 

shades ; 
Or  if  your  influence  be  quite  dammed 

up 
With  black   usurping   mists,  some 

gentle  taper. 
Though    a    rush  candle,  from  the 

wicker-hole 
Of  some  clay  habitation,  visit  us 
With     thy    long-levelled     rule     of 

streaming  light ; 
And    thou    shalt    be    our   star   of 

Arcady, 
Or  Tyrian  Cynosure. 

2  Br.  —  Or  if  our  eyes 

Be  barred  that  happiness,  might  we 

but  hear 
The  folded  flocks  penned  in  their 

wattled  cotes, 
Or  sound  of  pastoral  reed  with  oaten 

stops, 


110 


PARNASSUS. 


Or  whistle  from  the  lodge,  or  village 

cock 
Count   the    night   watches    to    his 

feathery  dames, 
'Twould  be  some  solace  yet,  some 

little  cheering 
In  this  close  dungeon  of  innumerous 

boughs. 
But  O  that  hapless  virgin,  our  lost 

sister ! 
Where  may  she  wander  now,  whither 

betake  her 
From  the  chill   dew,    among   rude 

burrs  and  thistles  ? 
Perhaps  some  cold  bank  is  her  bol- 
ster now. 
Or  'gainst  the  rugged  bark  of  some 

broad  elm 
Leans  her  unpillowed  head,  fraught 

with  sad  fears. 
What,  if   in  wild  amazement  and 

affright. 
Or,  while  we  speak,  within  the  dire- 
ful grasp 
Of  savage  hunger,  or  of  savage  heat  ? 
1  Br.  —  Peace,    brother,    be    not 

over-exquisite 
To  cast  the  fashion    of   uncertain 

evils ; 
For  grant  they  be  so,  while  they  rest 

unknown. 
What  need  a  man  forestall  his  date 

of  grief. 
And  run  to  meet  what  he  would 

most  avoid  ? 
Or  if  they  be  but  false  alarms  of  fear. 
How  bitter  is  such  self-delusion ! 
I  do  not  think  my  sister  so  to  seek. 
Or  80  unprincipled  in  virtue's  book. 
And  the  sweet  peace  that  goodness 

bosoms  ever, 
As  that  the  single  want  of  light  and 

noise 
(Not  being  in  danger,  as  I  ti-ust  she 

is  not) 
Could  stir  the  constant  mood  of  her 

calm  thoughts. 
And   put   them   into   misbecoming 

plight. 
Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  virtue 

would 
By  her  own  radiant  light,  though 

sun  and  moon 
Were  in  the  flat    sea   sunk.    And 

Wisdom's  self 
Oft  seeks  to  sweet  retired  solitude, 
Where,  with  her  best  nurse.  Con- 
templation, 


She  plumes  her  feathers,  and  lets 

grow  her  wings. 
That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 
Were  all-to  ruffled,  and  sometimes 

impaired. 
He  that  has   light  within  his  own 

clear  breast. 
May    sit   i'   the  centre,   and    enjoy 

bright  day : 
But  he  that  hides  a  dark  soul,  and 

foul  thoughts, 
Benighted  walks  under  the  mid-day 

sun; 
Himself  is  his  own  dungeon. 

2  Br.  —  'Tis  most  true, 
That  musing  meditation  most  affects 
The  pensive  secrecy  of  desert  cell. 
Far  from  the  cheerful  haunt  of  men 

and  herds, 
And  sits  as  safe  as  in  a  senate  house ; 
For  who  would  rob  a  hermit  of  his 

weeds. 
His  few  books,  or  his  beads,  or  maple 

dish. 
Or  do  his  gray  hairs  any  violence  ? 
But  beauty,  like  the  fair  Hesperian 

tree 
Laden  with  blooming  gold,  had  need 

the  guard 
Of  dragon  watch  with  unenchanted 

eye. 
To  save  her  blossoms,  and  defend 

her  fruit 
From  the  rash  hand  of  bold  incon- 
tinence. 
You  may  as  well  spread  out  the  un- 
sunned heaps 
Of  miser's  treasure  by  an  outlaw's 

den. 
And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  as  bid  me  hope 
Danger  will  wink  on  opportunity. 
And  let  a  single  helpless  maiden  pass 
Uninjured  in  this  wild  surrounding 

waste. 
Of  night,  or  loneliness,  it  recks  me 

not; 
I  fear  the  dread  events  that  dog  them 

both. 
Lest  some  ill-gi-eeting  touch  attempt 

the  person 
Of  our  unowned  sister. 

1  Br.  —  I  do  not,  brother, 
Infer,  as  if  I  thought   my  sister's 

state 
Secure  without  all    doubt    or  con- 
troversy ; 
Yet  where  an  equal  poise  of  hope 

and  fear 


INTELLECTUAL. 


Ill 


Does  arbitrate  the  event,  my  nature 

is 
That  I  incline  to  hope  rather  than 

fear, 
And  gladly  banish  squint  suspicion. 
My  sister  is  not  so  defenceless  left, 
As  you  imagine;  she  has  a  hidden 

strength 
Which  you  remember  not. 

2  Br.  —  Wliat  hidden  strength. 
Unless  the    strength  of  Heaven,  if 

you  mean  that  ? 
1  Br.  —  I  mean  that  too,  but  yet  a 

hidden  strength 
Which,  if  Heaven  gave  it,  may  be 

tenned  her  own ; 
'Tis  chastity,  my  brother,  chastity. 
She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  complete 

steel. 
And    like  a  quivered  Nymph  with 

arrows  keen 
May  trace  huge  forests,  and  unhar- 

bored  heaths, 
Infamous  hills,  and  sandy  perilous 

wilds. 
Where  through  the  sacred  rays  of 

chastity. 
No  savage  fierce,  bandite,  or  moun- 
taineer 
Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  purity : 
Yea   there,   where   very  desolation 

dwells. 
By  grots,  and  caverns  shagged  with 

horrid  shades. 
She  may  pass  on  with  unblenched 

majesty. 
Be  it  not  done  in  pride,  or  in  pre- 
sumption. 
Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks 

by  night. 
In  fog,  or  fire,  by  lake,  or  moorish 

fen. 
Blue  meagre  hag,  or  stubborn  unlaid 

ghost. 
That    breaks  his    magic  chains    at 

curfew  time. 
No  goblin,  or  swart   faery  of   the 

mine. 
Hath  hurtful  power  o'er  true  virgin- 
ity. 
Do  ye  believe  me  yet,  or  shall  I  call 
Antiquity  from  the  old  schools  of 

Greece 
To  testify  the  arms  of  chastity  ? 
Hence  had  the  huntress  Dian  her 

dread  bow, 
Fair   silver-shafted    queen,    forever 

chaste, 


Wlierewith  she  tamed  the  brinded 

lioness 
And  spotted  mountain  pard,  and  set 

at  nought 
The  frivolous  bolt  of  Cupid;  gods 

and  men 
Feared  her  stern  frown,  and  she  was 

queen  o'  the  woods. 
What  was  that  snaky-headed  Gorgon 

shield, 
That  wise    Minerva    wore,    uncon- 

quered  virgin. 
Wherewith  she  freezed  her  foes  to 

congealed  stone. 
But  rigid  looks  of  chaste  austerity. 
And  noble  grace  that  dashed  brute 

violence 
With  sudden  adoration  and  blank 

awe? 
So  dear  to  heaven  is  saintly  chastity, 
That  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely 

so, 
A  thousand  liveried  angels  lackey 

her. 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and 

guilt, 
And  in  clear  dream,  and  solemn  vis- 
ion. 
Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear 

can  hear, 
Till  oft  converse  with  heavenly  habi- 
tants 
Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  the  outward 

shape. 
The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind. 
And  turns  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul's 

essence. 
Till  all  be  made  immortal :  but  when 

lust, 
By  unchaste  looks,  loose  gestures, 

and  foul  talk. 
But  most  by  lewd  and  lavish  act  of 

sin. 
Lets  in  defilement  to    the   inward 

parts. 
The  soul  grows  clotted  by  contagion, 
Imbodies,    and   imbnites,    till    she 

quite  lose 
The  divine  property  of  her  first  be- 
ing. 
Such  are  those  thick  and  gloomy 

shadows  damp 
Oft  seen  in  charnel  vaults,  and  sep- 
ulchres. 
Lingering  and  sitting  by  a  new-made 

grave, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  body  that  it 

loved, 


112 


PARNASSUS. 


And  linked  itself  by  carnal  sensual- 

ty 

To  a  degenerate  and  degraded  state, 
2  Br.  —  How  charming  is   divine 

philosophy ! 
Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools 

suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute. 
And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectared 

sweets, 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns, 

1  Br.  — List,  list,  I  hear 

Some  far  off  halloo  break  the  silent 
air. 

2  Br.  —  Methought  so  too :   what 

should  it  be? 

1  Br.  —  For  certain 

Either  some  one  like  us  night-found- 
ered here. 

Or  else  some  neighbor  woodman, 
or,  at  worst, 

Some  roving  robber  calling  to  his 
fellows. 

2  Br. — Heaven    keep   my  sister. 

Again,  again,  and  near ! 
Best    draw,    and    stand    upon    our 
guard. 

1  l?r.  — I'll  halloo: 

If  he  be  friendly,  he  comes  well ;  if 

not, 
Defence  is  a  good  cause,  and  Heaven 

be  for  us. 

Enter  the  Attendant  Spirit,  hab- 
ited like  a  shepherd. 

That  halloo  I  should  know:  what 

are  you  ?  speak ; 
Come  not  too  near,  you  fall  on  iron 

stakes  else. 
Spir.  —  What  voice  is  that?    my 

young  Lord  ?  speak  again. 

2  Br.  —  O  brother,  'tis  my  father's 

shepherd,  sure. 
1  Br.  —  Thyrsis  ?     Whose    artful 
strains  have  oft  delayed 

The  huddling  brook  to  hear  his  mad- 
rigal, 

And  sweetened  every  muskrose  of 
the  dale. 

How  cam'st  thou  here,  good  swain  ? 
hath  any  ram 

Slipt  from  the  fold,  or  young  kid 
lost  his  dam. 

Or  straggling  wether  the  pent  flock 
forsook  ? 

How  couldst  thou  find  this  dark  se- 
questered nook  ? 


Spir.  — O  my  loved  master's  heir, 

and  his  next  joy, 
I  came  not  here  on  such  a  trivial 

toy 
As  a  strayed  ewe,  or  to  pursue  the 

stealth 
Of  pilfering  wolf ;  not  all  the  fleecy 

wealth 
That  doth  enrich   these    downs    is 

worth  a  thought 
To  this  my  errand,  and  the  care  it 

brought. 
But,   O  my  virgin  Lady,  where  is 

she? 
How  chance  she  is  not  in  your  com- 
pany ? 
1  Br.  —  To  tell  thee  sadly.  Shep- 
herd, without  blame. 
Or  our  neglect,  we  lost  her  as  we 

came. 
S2nr.  —  Aye  me  unhappy !  then  my 

fears  are  true. 
1  Br.  —  What  fears,  good  Thyrsis  ? 

Prithee  briefly  show. 
Spir.  — I'll  tell  ye ;  'tis  not  vain  or 

fabulous. 
Though  so  esteemed  by  shallow  ig- 
norance. 
What  the  sage  poets,  taught  by  the 

heavenly  Muse, 
Storied  of  old  in  high  immortal  verse, 
Of    dire    chimeras,   and    enchanted 

isles. 
And    rifted    rocks  whose   entrance 

leads  to  Hell ; 
For  such  there  be,  but  unbelief  is 

blind. 
Within  the  navel  of  this  hideous 

wood. 
Immured  in  cypress  shades  a  sorcer- 
er dwells. 
Of  Bacchus  and  of  Circe  born,  great 

Comus, 
Deep    skilled    in    all   his  mother's 

witcheries ; 
And  here  to  every  thirsty  wanderer 
By  sly  enticement  gives  his  baneful 

cup. 
With  many  murmurs  mixed,  whose 

pleasing  poison 
The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him 

that  drinks. 
And  the  inglorious    likeness    of    a 

beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmoulding  reason's 

mintage 
Charactered  in  the  face :  this  I  have 

learnt 


INTELLECTUAL. 


113 


Tending  my  flocks  hard  by  i'  the 
hilly  crofts, 

That  brow  this  bottom-glade,  whence 
night  by  night, 

He  and  his  monstrous  rout  are  heard 
to  howl, 

Like    stabled  wolves,    or  tigers    at 
their  prey, 

Doing  abhorred  rites  to  Hecate 

In  their  obscured  haunts  of  inmost 
bowers. 

Yet  have  they  many  baits,  and  guile- 
ful spells, 

T'inveigle  and    invite    the  unwary 
sense 

Of  them  that  pass  unweeting  by  the 
way. 

This  evening  late,  by  then  the  chew- 
ing flocks 

Had  ta'en  their  supper  on  the  sa- 
vory herb 

Of    knot-grass    dew-besprent,    and 
were  in  fold, 

I  sat  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank 

With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 

With    flaunting    honey-suckle,   and 
began. 

Wrapt  in  a  pleasing  fit  of  melan- 
choly, 

To  meditate  my  rural  minstrelsy, 

Till  fancy  had  her  fill,   but  ere  a 
close. 

The  wonted  roar  was  up  amidst  the 
woods. 

And  filled  the  air  with   barbarous 
dissonance ; 

At  which  I  ceased,  and  listened  them 
a  while. 

Till  an  unusual  stop  of  sudden  silence 

Gave  respite  to  the  drowsy  frighted 
steeds. 

That  draw  the  litter  of  close-cur- 
tained sleep ; 

At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing 
sound 

Rose  like  a  stream  of  rich  distilled 
perfumes, 

And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even 
Silence 

Was    took  ere  she  was  ware,   and 
wished  she  might 

Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more, 

Still  to  be  so  displaced.    I  was  all 
ear, 

And    took    in    strains    that    might 
create  a  soul 

Under  the  ribs  of  death :  but  O  ere 
long 

8 


Too  well  I  did  perceive  it  was  the 

voice 
Of   my  most  honored    Lady,  your 

dear  sister. 
Amazed  I  stood,  harrowed  with  grief 

and  fear, 
And    O    poor    hapless    nightingale 

thought  I, 
How  sweet  thou  sing'st,  how  near 

the  deadly  snare ! 
Then  down  the  lawns  I  ran  with 

headlong  haste, 
Through  paths  and  turnings  often 

trod  by  day, 
Till  guided  by  mine  ear  I  found  the 

place. 
Where  that  damned  wizard,  hid  in 

sly  disguise, 
(For  so  by  certain  signs  I  knew)  had 

met 
Already,   ere  my  best  speed  could 

prevent. 
The    aidless     innocent     Lady    his 

wished  prey ; 
Who  gently  asked  if  he  had  seen 

such  two, 
Supposing  him  some  neighbor  vil- 
lager. 
Longer  I  durst  not  stay,  but  soon  I 

guessed 
Ye  were  the  two  she  meant:  with 

that  I  sprung 
Into  swift  flight,  till  I  had  found 

you  here, 
But  further  know  I  not. 

2  Br.  —  O  night  and  shades, 
How  are  ye  joined    with    Hell    in 

triple  knot, 
Against  the  unarmed  weakness  of 

one  virgin. 
Alone  and  helpless  I   Is  this  the  con- 
fidence 
You  gave  me,  brother  ? 

1  Br.  —  Yes,  and  keep  it  still. 
Lean  on  it  safely;  not  a  period 
Shall  be  unsaid  for  me :  against  the 

threats 
Of  malice  or  of  sorcery,  or  that  power 
Which  erring  men  call  Chance,  this 

I  hold  finn. 
Virtue  may  be  assailed,  but  never 

hurt, 
Surprised  by  unjust  force,  but  not 

inthralled ; 
Yea  even  that  which  mischief  meant 

most  harm. 
Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most 

glory: 


114 


PARNASSUS. 


But  evil  on  itself  shall  "back  recoil, 

And  mix  no  more  with  goodness, 
when  at  last 

Gathered  like  scum,  and  settled  to 
itself, 

It  shall  be  in  eternal  restless  change 

Self-fed,  and  self -consumed :  if  this 
fail, 

The  pillared  firmament  is  rottenness, 

And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble. 
But  come,  let's  on. 

Against  the  opposing  will  and  arm 
of  heaven 

May  never  this  just  sword  be  lifted 
up; 

But  for  that  damned  magician,  let 
him  be  girt 

With  all  the  grisly  legions  that  troop 

Under  the  sooty  flag  of  Acheron, 

Hai*pies  and  Hydras,  or  all  the  mon- 
strous forms 

'Twixt  Africa  and  Ind,  I'll  find  him 
out, 

And  force  him  to  return  his  pur- 
chase back. 

Or  drag  him  by  the  curls  to  a  foul 
death. 

Cursed  as  his  life. 
Spir.  —  Alas !      good      vent'rous 
Youth, 

I  love  thy  courage  yet,  and  bold  em- 
prise ; 

But   here  thy  sword  can  do    thee 
little  stead ; 

Far  other  arms  and  other  weapons 
must 

Be    those   that  quell  the  might  of 
hellish  charms: 

He  with  his  bare  wand  can  unthread 
thy  joints. 

And  crumble  all  thy  sinews. 
1  Br.  — Wliy  prithee.  Shepherd, 

How    durst    thou  then  thyself  ap- 
proach so  near. 

As  to  make  this  relation? 

Spir.  —  Care  and  utmost  shifts 

How  to  secure  the  Lady  from  sur- 
prisal. 

Brought  to  my  mind  a  certain  shep- 
herd lad. 

Of  small  regard  to  see  to,  yet  well 
skilled 

In  every  virtuous  plant  and  healing 
herb. 

That  spreads  her  verdant  leaf  to  the 
morning  ray : 

He  loved  me  well,  and  oft  would  beg 
me  sing,  . 


Which  when  I  did,  he  on  the  tender 

grass 
Would  sit,  and  hearken  e'en  to  ecs- 
tasy. 
And    in    requital   ope  his  leathern 

scrip. 
And  show  me  simples  of  a  thousand 

names. 
Telling  their  strange  and  vigorous 

faculties : 
Amongst  the  rest  a  small  unsightly 

root. 
But  of  divine  effect,  he  culled  me  out : 
The    leaf    was    darkish,    and    had 

prickles  on  it. 
But  in  another  country,  as  he  said. 
Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not 

in  this  soil : 
Unknown,  and  like  esteemed,  and 

the  dull  swain 
Treads  on  it  daily  with  his  clouted 

shoon : 
And  yet  more  med'cinal  is  it  than 

that  moly 
That  Hermes  once  to  wise  Ulysses 

gave; 
He  called  it  haemony,  and  gave  it  me. 
And  bade  me  keep  it  as  of  sovereign 

use 
'Gainst  all  enchantments,  mildew, 

blast,  or  damp, 
Or  ghastly  furies'  apparition. 
I  pursed  it  up,  but  little  reckoning 

made. 
Till  now  that  this  extremity  com- 
pelled : 
But  now  I  find  it  true ;  for  by  this 

means 
I  knew  the  foul  enchanter  though 

disguised. 
Entered  the  very  lime-twigs  of  his 

spells. 
And  yet  came  off :  if  you  have  this 

about  you, 
(As  I  will  give  you  when  we  go)  you 

may 
Boldly    assault    the    necromancer's 

hall; 
Where  if  he  be,  with  dauntless  har- 
dihood, 
And  brandished  blade  rush  on  him, 

break  his  glass. 
And  shed  the  luscious  liquor  on  the 

ground, 
But  seize  his  wand ;  though  he  and 

his  cursed  crew 
Fierce  sign  of  battle  make,  and  men- 
ace high, 


INTBLIiEOTUAL. 


lU 


Or  like  the  sons  of  Yulcan  vomit 

smoke, 
Yet  will  they  soon  retire,  if  he  but 

shrink. 
1  Br.  —  Thyrsis,  lead  on  apace,  I'll 

follow  thee. 
And  some  good  Angel  bear  a  shield 

before  us. 

The  Scene  changes  to  a  stately  palace, 
set  out  with  all  manner  ofdelicious- 
ness;  soft  music,  tables  spread  with 
all  dainties.  Comus  appears  with 
his  rabble,  and  the  Lady  set  in  an 
enchanted  chair,  to  whom  he  offers 
his  gla^,  which  she  puts  by,  and 
goes  about  to  rise. 

Com. — Nay,  Lady,  sit;  if  I  but 

wave  this  wand, 
Your  nerves  are  all  chained  up  in 

alabaster. 
And  you  a  statue,  or  as  Daphne  was 
Koot-bound,  that  fled  Apollo. 
Lady.  — Fool,  do  not  boast. 
Thou  canst  not  touch  the  freedom 

of  my  mind 
With  all  thy  charms,  although  this 

corporal  rind 
Thou  hast  immanacled,  while  heaven 

sees  good. 
Com.  —  Why  are  you  vext,  Lady  ? 

why  do  you  frown? 
Here  dwell  no  frowns,  nor  anger; 

from  these  gates 
Sorrow  flies  far :  See,  here  be  all  the 

pleasures 
That  fancy  can  beget  on  youthful 

thoughts, 
Wlien  the  fresh  blood  grows  lively, 

and  returns 
Brisk  as  the  April  buds  in  primrose- 
season. 
And  first  behold  this  cordial  julep 

here, 
That  flames,  and  dances  in  his  crys- 
tal bounds, 
With  spirits  of  hahn,  and  fragrant 

syrups  mixed. 
Xot  that  Nepenthes,  which  the  wife 

of  Thone 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  Helena, 
Is  of  such  power  to  stir  up  joy  as 

this, 
To  life  so  friendly,   or  so  cool  to 

thirst. 
Why  should  you  be  so  cruel  to  youiv 

self, 


And  to  Hkose  dainty  limbs  which 

nature  lent 
For  gentle  usage,  and  soft  delicacy  ? 
But  you  invert  the  covenants  of  her 

trust. 
And  harshly  deal,  like  an  ill  borrower, 
With  that  which    you   received  on 

other  terms ; 
Scorning  the  unexempt  condition 
By  which   all  mortal   frailty  must 

subsist, 
Kefreshment  after   toil,  ease    after 

pain, 
That  have  been  tired  all  day  without 

repast. 
And  timely  rest  have  wanted;  but, 

fair  Virgin, 
This  will  restore  all  soon. 

Lady.  — 'Twill  not,  false  traitor, 
'Twill    not  restore   the    truth    and 

honesty 
That  thou  hast  banished  from  thy 

tongue  with  lies. 
Was  this  the  cottage,  and  the  safe 

Thou   told' St  me   of?    What   grim 

aspects  are  these, 
These  ugly-headed  monsters  ?  Mercy 

guard  me ! 
Hence    with   thy  brewed  enchant- 
ments, foul  deceiver; 
Hast  thou  betrayed   my  credulous 

innocence 
With    visored   falsehood    and  base 

forgery  ? 
And  wouldst  thou  seek  again  to  trap 

me  here 
With  liquorish  baits  fit  to  insnare  a 

brute  ? 
Were  it  a  draught  for  Juno  when  she 

banquets, 
I  would   not  taste   thy  treasonous 

offer;  none 
But  such  as  are  good  men  can  give 

good  things, 
And  that  which  is  not  good  is  not 

delicious 
To  a  well-governed  and  wise  appetite. 
Com.  —  O  foolishness  of  men !  that 

lend  their  ears 
To  those  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic 

fur. 
And  fetch  their  precepts  from  the 

Cynic  tub. 
Praising  the  lean  and  sallow  Absti- 
nence. 
Wherefore    did    Nature   pour  her 

bounties  forth 


116 


PARNASSUS. 


With  such  a  full  and  un withdrawing 
hand, 

Covering  the  earth  with  odors, 
fruits,  and  flocks, 

Thronging  the  seas  with  spawn 
innumerable, 

But  all  to  please,  and  sate  the  curious 
taste  ? 

And  set  to  work  millions  of  spinning 
worms. 

That  in  their  green  shops  weave  the 
smooth-haired  silk 

To  deck  her  sons ;  and  that  no  cor- 
ner might 

Be  vacant  of  her  plenty,  in  her  own 
loins 

She  hutched  the  all  worshipped  ore, 
and  precious  gems, 

To  store  her  children  with :  if  all  the 
world 

Should  in  a  pet  of  temperance  feed 
on  pulse, 

Drink  the  clear  stream,  and  nothing 
wear  but  frieze, 

The  All-giver  would  be  unthanked, 
would  be  unpraised. 

Not  half  his  riches  known,  and  yet 
despised ; 

And  we  should  serve  him  as  a  grudg- 
ing master. 

As  a  penurious  niggard  of  his 
wealth ; 

And  live  like  Nature's  bastards,  not 
her  sons. 

Who  would  be  quite  surcharged  with 
her  own  weight, 

And  strangled  with  her  waste  fer- 
tility ; 

The  earth  cumbered,  and  the  winged 
air  darked  with  plumes. 

The  herds  would  over-multitude 
their  lords, 

The  sea  o'erfraught  would  swell,  and 
the  unsought  diamonds 

Would  so  emblaze  the  forehead  of 
the  deep. 

And  so  bestud  with  stars,  that  they 
below 

Would  grow  inured  to  light,  and  come 
at  last 

To  gaze  upon  the  sun  with  shame- 
less brows. 

List,  Lady,  be  not  coy,  and  be  not 
cozened 

With  that  same  vaunted  name  Vir- 
ginity. 

Beauty  is  Nature's  coin,  must  not  be 
hoarded, 


But  must  be  current,  and  the  good 
thereof 

Consists  in   mutual    and    partaken 
bliss. 

Unsavory     in    the    enjoyment    of 
itself; 

If  you  let  slip  time,  like  a  neglected 
rose 

It  withers  on    the    stalk  with  lan- 
guished head. 

Beauty  is  Nature's  brag,  and  must  be 
shown 

In  courts,  at  feasts,  and  high  solem- 
nities. 

Where    most   may  wonder  at    the 
workmanship ; 

It  is  for  homely  features   to  keep 
home, 

They  had  their  name  thence ;  coarse 
complexions, 

And  cheeks  of  sorry  grain,  will  serve 
to  ply 

The  sampler,  and  to  tease  the  house- 
wife's wool. 

What  need  a  vermeil-tinctured  lip 
for  that. 

Love-darting  eyes,  or  tresses  like  the 
morn? 

There  was  another  meaning  in  these 
gifts. 

Think  what,  and  be  advised,  you  are 
but  young  yet. 
Lady.  —  I  had  not  thought  to  have 
unlockt  my  lips 

In  this  unhallowed  air,  but  that  this 
juggler 

Would  think  to  charm  my  judgment, 
as  mine  eyes, 

Obtruding    false   rules    pranked  in 
reason's  garb. 

I  hate  when  Vice  can  bolt  her  argu- 
ments. 

And  Virtue  has  no  tongue  to  check 
her  pride. 

Impostor,  do  not  charge  most  iimo- 
cent  Nature, 

As  if  she  would  her  children  should 
be  riotous 

With    her    abundance;   she,    good 
cateress. 

Means    her   provision    only  to  the 
good. 

That    live    according   to  her  sober 
laws. 

And  holy  dictate  of  spare  temper- 
ance : 

If  every  just  man,  that  now  pines 
with  want. 


INTELLECTUAL. 


117 


Had  but  a  moderate  and  beseeming 

share 
Of     that     which    lewdly-pampered 

luxury 
Now  heaps  upon  some  few  with  vast 

excess, 
Nature's  full  blessings  would  be  well 

dispensed 
In  unsuperfluous  even  proportion, 
And  she  no  whit  encumbered  with 

her  store ; 
And  then  the  Giver  would  be  better 

thanked, 
His    praise    due  paid;   for   swinish 

gluttony 
Ne'er  looks  to  heaven  amidst   his 

gorgeous  feast, 
But  with  besotted  base  ingratitude 
Crams,  and  blasphemes  his  feeder. 

Shall  I  go  on? 
Or  have  I  said  enough?     To  him 

that  dares 
Arm  his  profane  tongue  with  con- 
temptuous words 
Against    the     sun-clad    power     of 

Chastity, 
Fain  would  I  something  say,  yet  to 

what  end  ? 
Thou  hast  not  ear,  nor  soul  to  appre- 
hend 
The  sublime  notion,  and  high  mys- 
tery. 
That  must  be  uttered  to  unfold  the 

sage 
And  serious  doctrine  of  Virginity, 
And    thou    art    worthy    that    thou 

shouldst  not  know 
More  happiness  than  this  thy  present 

lot. 
Enjoy  your  dear  wit,  and  gay  rheto- 
ric, 
That  hath  so  well  been  taught  her 

dazzling  fence. 
Thou    art   not  fit    to  hear  thyself 

convinced ; 
Yet  should  I  try,  the  uncontrolled 

worth 
Of  this  pure  cause  would  kindle  my 

rapt  spirits 
To  such  a  flame  of  sacred  vehemence. 
That  dumb  things  would  be  moved 

to  sympathize, 
And  the  brute  earth  would  lend  her 

nerves,  and  shake. 
Till  all  thy  magic  structures  reared 

so  high, 
Were  shattered  into  heaps  o'er  thy 

false  head. 


Com.  —  She  fables  not ;  I  feel  that 

I  do  fear 
Her  words  set  off  by  some  superior 

power : 
And  though  not  mortal,  yet  a  cold 

shuddering  dew 
Dips  me  all  o'er,  as  when  the  wrath 

of  Jove 
Speaks  thunder,  and  the  chains  of 

Erebus, 
To  some  of  Saturn's  crew.    I  must 

dissemble. 
And  try  her  yet  more  strongly.  Come, 

no  more. 
This  is  mere  moral  babble,  and  direct 
Against  the  canon  laws  of  our  foun- 
dation ; 
I  must  not  suffer  this,  yet  'tis  but 

the  lees 
And  settlings  of  a  melancholy  blood : 
But  this  will  cure  all  straight ;  one 

sip  of  this 
Will  bathe  the  drooping  spirits  in 

delight. 
Beyond  the  bliss    of    dreams.      Be 

wise,  and  taste.  — 

The  Brothers  rush  in  with  swords 
drawn,  wrest  his  glass  out  of  his 
hand,  and  break  it  against  the 
ground :  his  rout  make  sign  of  re- 
sistance, hut  are  all  driven  in.  The 
Attendant  Spirit  comes  in. 

Spir.  —  What,   have  you    let    the 
false  enchanter  'scape? 

O    ye    mistook,    ye    should     have 
snatched  his  wand, 

And  bound  him  fast:  without  his 
rod  reversed, 

And  backword  mutters  of  dissever- 
ing power. 

We  cannot  free  the  Lady  that  sits 
here 

In  stony  fetters  fixed,  and  motion- 
less: 

Yet  stay,  be  not  disturbed:  now  I 
bethink  me. 

Some  other  means  I  have  which  may 
be  used, 

Which    once    of    Meliboeus    old   I 
learnt. 

The    soothest    shepherd    that   e'er 
piped  on  plains. 
There  is  a  gentle  nymph  not  far 
from  hence. 

That  with  moist   curb    sways    the 
smooth  Severn  stream, 


118 


PARKASSTJS. 


Sabrina  is  her  name,  a  virgin  pure ; 

Wliilom  she  was  the  daughter  of 
Locrine, 

That  had  the  sceptre  from  his  fath- 
er Brute. 

She,  guiltless  damsel,  flying  the  mad 
pursuit 

Of  her  enraged  stepdame  Guendo- 
len. 

Commended  her  fair  innocence  to 
the  flood, 

They  stayed  her  flight  with  his  cross- 
flowing  course. 

The  water-nymphs  that  in  the  bot- 
tom played, 

Held  up  their  pearlM  wrists,  and 
took  her  in. 

Bearing  her  straight  to  aged  Nereus' 
hall. 

Who,  piteous  of  her  woes,  reared 
her  lank  head, 

And  gave  her  to  his  daughters  to 
imbathe 

In  nectared  lavers  strewed  with  as- 
phodel, 

And  through  the  porch  and  inlet  of 
each  sense 

Dropped  in  ambrosial  oils,  till  she 
revived. 

And  underwent  a  quick  immortal 
change, 

Made  Goddess  of  the  river:  still  she 
retains 

Her  maiden  gentleness,  and  oft  at  eve 

Visits  the  herds  along  the  twilight 
meadows. 

Helping  all  urchin  blasts,  and  ill- 
luck  signs 

That  the  shrewd  meddling  elf  de- 
lights to  make, 

Which  she  with  precious  vialled  li- 
quors heals ; 

For  which  the  shepherds  at  their 
festivals 

Carol  her  goodness  loud  in  rustic 
lays. 

And  throw  sweet  garland  wreaths 
into  her  stream 

Of  pansies,  pinks,  and  gaudy  daffo- 
dils, 

And,  as  the  old  swain  said,  she  can 
unlock 

The  clasping  charm,  and  thaw  the 
numbing  spell. 

If  she  be  right  invoked  in  warbled 
song ; 

For  maidenhood  she  loves,  and  will 
be  swift 


To  aid  a  virgin,  such  as  was  herself, 
In  hard-besetting  need;  this  will  I 

try, 
And  add  the  power  of  some  adjuring 

verse. 

SONG. 

Sabrina  fair. 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent 
wave. 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-drop- 
ping hair ; 

Listen  for  dear  honor's  sake, 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 
Listen  and  save. 
Listen  and  appear  to  us 
In  name  of  great  Oceanus, 
By     the    earth-shaking    Neptune's 

mace, 
And  Tethys'  grave  majestic  pace, 
By  hoary  Nereus'  wrinkled  look, 
And  the  Carpathian  wizard's  hook, 
By  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell. 
And  old  soothsaying  Glaucus'  spell, 
By  Leucothea's  lovely  hands. 
And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands, 
By  Thetis'  tinsel-slippered  feet, 
And  the  songs  of  Sirens  sweet, 
By  dead  Parthenope's  dear  tomb, 
And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb. 
Wherewith    she   sits    on    diamond 

rocks, 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks, 
By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance, 
Kise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 
From  thy  coral-paven  bed, 
And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave. 
Till  thou  our  summons    answered 
have. 

Listen  and  save. 

Sabbina  riseSf  attended  by  water- 
nymphs,  and  sings. 

By  the  rushy-fringed  bank, 
Where  grow  the  willow  and  the  osier 
dank, 

My  sliding  chariot  stays, 
Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azurn 

sheen 
Of  turkis  blue,  and  emerald  green. 

That  in  the  channel  strays ; 
Wliilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet, 
Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 


INTELLECTUAL. 


119 


O'er  the  cowslip's  velvet  head, 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread ; 
Gentle  Swain,  at  thy  request 

I  am  here. 

Spir.  —  Goddess  dear, 
We  implore  thy  powerful  hand 
To  undo  the  charmed  band 
Of  true  virgin  here  distressed, 
Through  the  force,  and  through  the 

wile 
Of  unblest  enchanter  vile. 

Sabr.  —  Shepherd,  'tis    my  oflBce 
best 
To  help  ensnared  chastity : 
Brightest  Lady,  look  on  me ; 
Thus  I  sprinkle  on  thy  breast 
Drops  that  from  my  fountain  pure 
I  have  kept  of  precious  cure. 
Thrice  upon  thy  finger's  tip, 
Thrice  upon  thy  rubied  lip ; 
Next  this  marble  venomed  seat, 
Smeared  with   gums    of   glutinous 

heat, 
I  touch  with  chaste  palms  moist  and 

cold : 
Now  the  spell  hath  lost  his  hold ; 
And  I  must  haste  ere  morning  hour 
To  wait  in  Amphitrite's  bower. 

Sabbina  descends,  and  the  Lady 
rises  out  of  her  seat. 

Spir. — Virgin,  daughter   of   Lo- 

crine. 
Sprung  of  old  Anchises'  line. 
May  thy  brimmed  waves  for  this 
Their  full  tribute  never  miss 
From  a  thousand  petty  rills, 
That  tumble  down  the  snowy  hills : 
Summer  drouth,  or  singed  air 
Never  scorch  thy  tresses  fair, 
Nor  wet  October's  torrent  flood 
Thy  molten  crystal  fill  with  mud ; 
May  thy  billows  roll  ashore 
The  beryl,  and  the  golden  ore ; 
May  thy  lofty  head  be  crowned 
With  many  a  tower  and  terrace  round, 
And  here  and  there  thy  banks  upon 
With  groves  of  myrrh  and  cinnamon. 
Come,  Lady,  while  heaven  lends 

us  grace. 
Let  us  fly  this  cursed  place, 
Lest  the  sorcerer  us  entice 
With  some  other  new  device. 
Not  a  waste,  or  needless  sound. 
Till  we  come  to  holier  ground ; 
I  shall  be  your  faithful  guide 
Through  this  gloomy  covert  wide, 


And  not  many  furlongs  thence 
Is  your  Father's  residence. 
Where  this  night  are  met  in  state 
Many  a  friend  to  gratulate 
His  wished  presence,  and  beside 
All  the  swains  that  there  abide. 
With  jigs,  and  rural  dance  resort  ; 
We  shall  catch  them  at  their  sport, 
And  our  sudden  coming  there 
Will  double  all  their  mirth  and  cheer; 
Come,  let  us  haste,  the  stars  grow 

high. 
But  night  sits  monarch  yet  in  the 

mid  sky. 

The  Scene  changes,  presenting  Ludr 
low  town  and  the  Presidenfs  cat- 
tle ;  then  come  in  country  dancers^ 
after  them  the  Attendant  Sj^irit, 
with  the  Two  Bkothees,  and  the 
Lady. 

SONG. 

/Spir. —Back,     Shepherds,    back, 
enough  your  play, 
Till  next  sunshine  holiday; 
Here  be  without  duck  or  nod 
Other  trippings  to  be  trod 
Of  lighter  toes,  and  such  court  guise 
As  Mercuiy  did  first  devise. 
With  the  mincing  Dryades, 
On  the  lawns,  and  on  the  leas. 

This  second  Song  presents  them  to 
their  Father  and  Mother. 

Noble  Lord,  and  Lady  bright, 
I  have  brought  ye  new  delight, 
Here  behold  so  goodly  grown 
Three  fair  branches  of  your  own ; 
Heaven   hath   timely  tried  their 

youth. 
Their  faith,  their   patience,  and 

their  truth. 
And  sent  them  here  through  hard 


With  a  crown  of  deathless  praise. 
To  triumph  in  victorious  dance 
O'er  sensual  folly,  and  intemperance. 

The  dances  ended,  the  Spirit  epi- 


Spir.  —  To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye. 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky: 


120 


PARNASSUS. 


There  I  suck  the  liquid  air 

All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 

Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree : 

Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 

Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring, 

The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosomed 

Hours, 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring ; 
There  eternal  Summer  dwells, 
And  west-winds,  with  musky  wing, 
About  the  cedarn  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 
Iris  there  with  humid  bow 
Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 
Than  her  purfled  scarf  can  show, 
And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew, 
(List  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 
Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses, 
Wliere  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 
In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  queen ; 
But  far  above  in  spangled  sheen 
Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  ad- 
vanced, 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche    sweet    en- 
tranced. 
After  her  wandering  labors  long, 
Till  free  consent  the  Gods  among 
Make  her  his  eternal  bride, 
And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born, 
Youth  and  Joy ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 
But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run 
Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end. 
Where  the  bowed  welkin  slow  doth 

bend, 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue,  she  alone  is  free ; 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime : 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 

Milton. 


MYTHOLOGY. 

O  NEVER  rudely  will  I  blame  his  faith 
In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels! 

'Tis  not  merely 
The  human  being's  Pride  that  peo- 
ples space 


With    life    and   mystical    predomi^ 

nance ; 
Since  likewise  for  the  stricken  heart 

of  Love 
This  visible  nature,  and  this  common 

world, 
Is  all  too  narrow :  yea,  a  deeper  im- 
port 
Lurks  in  the  legend  told  my  infant 

years 
Than  lies  upon  that  truth  we  live  to 

learn. 
For  fable  is  Love's  world,  his  home, 

his  birthplace : 
Delightedly  dwells  he  'mong   fays 

and  talismans, 
And  spirits ;  and  delightedly  believes 
Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 
The    intelligible  forms    of    ancient 

poets, 
The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 
The    power,   the    beauty,    and    the 

majesty. 
That  had  their  haunts  in  dale,  or 

piny  mountain. 
Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly 

spring. 
Or  chasms  and  watery  depths;   all 

these  have  vanished ; 
They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of 

reason. 
But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  lan- 
guage, still 
Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the 

old  names. 
And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now 

are  gone. 
Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share 

this  earth 
With  man  as  with  their  friend ;  and 

to  the  lover 
Yonder    they  move,    from    yonder 

visible  sky 
Shoot  influence  down;  and  even  at 

this  day 
'Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whate'er  is 

great. 
And  Venus  who  brings  every  thing 

that's  fair! 

Coleridge  :  Wallensteln. 


KILMENY. 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen ; 
But  it  was  na  to   meet  Duneira's 

men, 
Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 


INTELLECTUAL. 


121 


For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could 

be. 
It  was  only  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing, 
And  pu'  the  cress  flower  round  the 

spring  — 
The  scarlet  hypp,  and  the  hind  berry, 
And  the  nut .  that  hangs  frae    the 

hazel  tree ; 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could 

be. 
But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o'er 

the  wa', 
And  lang  may  she  seek  in  the  green- 
wood shaw ; 
Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame, 
And  lang,  lang  greet  ere  Kilmeny 

come  hame. 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled, 
"When  grief    grew  calm,   and  hope 

was  dead, 
When  mass  for  Kilmeny' s  soul  had 

been  sung. 
When  the    bedesman   had    prayed, 

and  the  dead-bell  rung. 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin,  when  all 

was  still. 
When    the  fringe  was    red  on  the 

westlin  hill. 
The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  in  the 

wane. 
The  reek  of  the  cot  hung  over  the 

plain  — 
Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world 

its  lane ; 
When  the  ingle  glowed  with  an  eiry 

flame, 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin,   Kilmeny 

came  hame ! 

"Kilmeny,    Kilmeny,    where    have 

you  been  ? 
Long  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and 

den  — 
By  linn,  by  ford,  and  greenwood  tree ; 
Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 
Where  got  you  that  joup  o'  the  lily 

sheen  ? 
That  bonny  snood  of  the  birk  sae 

green  ? 
And    these    roses,   the  fairest  that 

ever  were  seen  ? 
Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you 

been?" 
Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a    lovely 

grace, 
But  iiae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny' s 

face; 


As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still 

was  her  ee, 
As  the    stillness    that   lay  on    the 

emerant  lea. 
Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless 

sea. 
For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not 

where. 
And  Kilmeny  had    seen  what  she 

could  not  declare ; 
Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock 

never  crew. 
Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the 

wind  never  blew ; 
But  it  seemed  as  the  harp  of  the  sky 

had  rung, 
And  the  airs  of  heaven  played  round 

her  tongue. 
When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms 

she  had  seen. 
And  a    land  where  sin  had  never 

been  — 
A  land  of  love  and  a  land  of  light, 
Withouten  sun,  or  moon,  or  night; 
And  lovely  beings  round  were  rife. 
Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life ; 
They    clasped    her    waist    and    her 

hands  sae  fair. 
They  kissed    her    cheek    and    they 

kemed  her  hair ; 
And  round  came  many  a  blooming 

fere, 
Saying,  "  Bonny  Kilmeny,  ye're  wel- 
come here! 
Oh,  bonny  Kilmeny,  free  frae  stain. 
If  ever  you  seek  the  world  again  — 
That  world  of  sin,  of  sorrow,  and 

fear  — 
O,  tell  of  the  joys  that  are  waiting 

here ! 
And   tell    of   the    signs    you    shall 

shortly  see. 
Of  the  times  that  are  now,  and  the 

times  that  shall  be." 

But  to  sing  of  the  sights  Kilmeny 

saw, 
So  far  surpassing  Nature's  law, 
The  singer's  voice  wad  sink  away. 
And   the    string    of    his  harp  wad 

cease  to  play. 
But  she  saw  till  the  sorrows  of  man 

were  by, 
And  all  was  love  and  harmony ; 
Till  the  stars  of  heaven  fell  calmly 

away, 
Like  the  flakes  of  snaw  on  a  winter's 

day. 


122 


PARNASSUS. 


Then  Kilmeny  begged  again  to  see 

The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own 
countrye ; 

With  distant  music  soft  and  deep, 

They  lulled  Kilmeny  sound  asleep ; 

And  when  she  awakened,  she  lay 
her  lane. 

All  happed  with  flowers  in  the  green- 
wood wene. 

Wlien  seven  long  years  had  come 
and  fled ; 

When  grief  was  calm,  and  hope  was 
dead; 

When  scarce  was  remembered  Kil- 
meny's  name, 

Late,  late  in  a  gloamin,  Kilmeny 
came  hame ! 

And  oh,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see, 

But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  ee ! 

And  oh,  the  words  that  fell  from 
her  mouth 

Were  words  of  wonder  and  words 
of  truth! 

It  was  na  her  home,  and  she  could 

na  remain; 
She  left  this  world  of  sorrow  and 

pain. 
And  returned  to  the  land  of  thought 

again. 

Hogg. 


DREAMS. 

Again  returned  the  scenes  of  youth, 
Of  confident  undoubting  truth ; 
Again  his  soul  he  interchanged 
With  friends  whose  hearts  were  long 

estranged : 
They  come,  in  dim  procession  led, 
The  cold,  the  faithful,  and  the  dead ; 
As  warm  each  hand,  each  brow  as 

gay, 
As  if  they  parted  yesterday. 

SOOTT. 


ROMEO'S   PRESAGE. 

Romeo.  —  If  I  may  trust  the  flat- 
tering eye  of  sleep. 

My  dreams  presage  some  joyful  news 
at  hand : 

My  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly  in  his 
throne ; 

And  all  this  day  an  unaccustomed 
spirit 


Lifts   me    above    the    ground  with 
cheerful  thoughts. 

I  dreamt  my  lady  came  and  found 
me  dead ; 

(Strange  dream  that  gives  a  dead 
man  leave  to  think, ) 

And  breathed  such  life  with  kisses 
in  my  lips. 

That  I  revived  and  was  an  emperor. 

Ah,  me !  how  sweet  is  love  itself  pos- 
sessed 

When  but  love's  shadows  are  so  rich 
in  joy. 
Shakspeabe  :  Borneo  and  Juliet, 
Act  V.  Sc.  1. 


SHIPS  AT  SEA. 

I  HAVE-ships  that  went  to  sea 

More  than  fifty  years  ago : 
None  have  yet  come  home  to  me, 

But  keep  sailing  to  and  fro. 
I  have  seen  them,  in  my  sleep. 
Plunging  through  the  shoreless  deep, 
With    tattered    sails    and    battered 

hulls. 
While  around  them  screamed    the 
gulls. 
Flying  low,  flying  low. 

I  have  wondered  why  they  staid 

From  me,  sailing  round  the  world ; 
And  I've  said,  "I'm  half  afraid 
That    their    sails    will    ne'er   be 
furled." 
Great  the  treasures  that  they  hold,  — 
Silks  and  plumes,  and  bars  of  gold ; 
While  the  spices  which  they  bear 
Fill  with  fragrance  all  the  air, 
As  they  sail,  as  they  saiL 

Every  sailor  in  the  port 

Knows  that  I  have  ships  at  sea. 
Of  the  waves  and  winds  the  sport ; 

And  the  sailors  pity  me. 
Oft  they  come  and  with  me  walk. 
Cheering  me  with  hopeful  talk. 
Till  I  put  my  fears  aside, 
And  contented  watch  the  tide 
Rise  and  fall,  rise  and  fall. 

I  have  waited  on  the  piers. 
Gazing  for  them  down  the  bay. 

Days  and  nights,  for  many  years, 
Till  I  turned  heart-sick  away. 

But  the  pilots,  when  they  lancl, 

Stop  and  take  me  by  the  hand, 


INTELUECTUAL. 


123 


Saying,  "  You  will  live  to  see 
Your  proud  vessels  come  from  sea, 
One  and  all,  one  and  all." 

So  I  never  quite  despair, 

Nor  let  hope  or  courage  fail ; 
And  some  day,  when  skies  are  fair. 

Up  the  bay  my  ships  will  sail. 
I  can  buy  then  all  I  need,  — 
Prints  to  look  at,  books  to  read, 
Horses,  wines,  and  works  of  art. 
Every  thing  except  a  heart : 

That  is  lost,  that  is  lost. 

Once  when  I  was  pure  and  young. 

Poorer,  too,  than  I  am  now. 
Ere  a  cloud  was  o'er  me  flung, 

Or  a  wrinkle  creased  my  brow, 
There  was  one  whose  heart  was  mine ; 
But  she's  something  now  divine, 
And  though  come  my  ships  from  sea. 
They  can  bring  no  heart  to  me. 
Evermore,  evermore. 

R.  B.  Coffin. 


THE  WHITE  ISLAND. 

In  this  world,  the  Isle  of  Dreames, 

While  we  sit  by  Sorrow's  streames, 

Teares  and  terrors  are  our  themes. 

Reciting : 

But  when  once  from  hence  we  flie, 
More  and  more  approaching  nigh 
Unto  young  eternitie. 


In  that  Wliiter  Island,  where 
Things  are  evermore  sincere ; 
Candor  here  and  lustre  there, 

Delighting : 

There  no  monstrous  fancies  shall 
Out  of  hell  an  Horror  call. 
To  create,  or  cause  at  all. 

Affrighting. 

There,  in  calm  and  cooling  sleep, 
We  our  eyes  shall  never  steep. 
But  eternall  watch  shall  keep, 

Attending 

Pleasures  such  as  shall  pursue 
Me  immortalized  and  you ; 
And  fresh  joyes,  as  never  to 

Have  ending. 
Heekick. 


FANTASY. 

Break,  Fantasy,  from  thy  cave  of 

cloud. 
And  spread  thy  purple  wings, 
Now  all  thy  figures  are  allowed. 
And  various  shapes  of  things ; 
Create  of  airy  forms  a  stream, 
It  must  have  blood,  and  nought  of 

phlegm. 
And,  though  it  be  a  waking  dream. 
Yet  let  it  like  an  odor  rise 
To  all  the  senses  here. 
And  fall  like  sleep  upon  their  eyes, 
Or  music  in  their  ear. 

Ben  Jonson. 


PHCENIX  AND  TURTLE  DOYE. 

Let  the  bird  of  loudest  lay. 

On  the  sole  Arabian  tree, 

Herald  sad  and  trumpet  be. 

To  whose  sound  chaste  wings  obey. 

But  thou  shrieking  harbinger, 
Foul  pre-currer  of  the  fiend. 
Augur  of  the  fever's  end. 
To  this  troop  come  thou  not  near. 

From  this  session  interdict 
Every  fowl  of  tyrant  wing. 
Save  the  eagle,  feathered  king ; 
Keep  the  obsequy  so  strict. 

Let  the  priest  in  surplice  white 
That  defunctive  music  can. 
Be  the  death-divining  swan. 
Lest  the  requiem  lack  his  right. 

And  thou  treble-dated  crow. 
That  thy  sable  gender  mak'st 
With  the  breath   thou   giv'st  and 

tak'st, 
'Mongst  our  mourners  shalt  thou  go. 

So  they  loved,  as  love  in  twain 
Had  the  essence  but  in  one ; 
Two  distincts,  division  none : 
Number  there  in  love  was  slain. 

Hearts  remote,  yet  not  asunder ; 
Distance,  and  no  space  was  seen 
'Twixt  the  turtle  and  his  queen: 
But  in  them  it  were  a  wonder. 

So  between  them  love  did  shine, 
That  the  turtle  saw  his  right 


124 


PARNASSUS. 


Flaming  in  the  Phoenix'  sight : 
Either  was  the  other's  mine. 

Property  was  thus  appalled, 
That  the  self  was  not  the  same ; 
Single  nature's  double  name 
Neither  two  nor  one  was  called. 

Reason,  in  itself  confounded, 
Saw  division  grow  together ; 
To  themselves  yet  either-neither, 
Simple  was  so  well  compounded : 

That  it  cried,  How  true  a  twain 
Seemeth  this  concordant  one ! 
Love  hath  reason,  reason  none, 
If  what  parts  can  so  remain. 

Whereupon  it  made  this  threne 
To  the  Phoenix  and  the  dove, 
Co-supremes  and  stars  of  love ; 
As  chorus  to  their  tragic  scene. 

THRENOS. 

Beauty,  truth,  and  rarity, 
Grace  in  all  simplicity. 
Here  enclosed  in  cinders  lie. 

Death  is  now  the  Phoenix'  nest ; 
And  the  turtle's  loyal  breast 
To  eternity  doth  rest, 

Leaving  no  posterity:  — 
'Twas  not  their  infirmity. 
It  was  married  chastity. 

Truth  may  seem,  but  cannot  be; 
Beauty  brag,  but  'tis  not  she; 
Truth  and  beauty  buried  be. 

To  this  urn  let  those  repair 
That  are  either  true  or  fair ; 
For  these  dead  birds  sigh  a  prayer. 
Shakspeare. 


COMPLIMENT  TO  QUEEN 
ELIZABETH. 

My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither,  thou 

remember' st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory. 
And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's 

back. 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious 

breath, 


That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her 

song; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from 

their  spheres. 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 
That  very  time,   I    saw,   but  thou 

couldst  not. 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and 

the  earth, 
Cupid  all  armed:  a  certain  aim  he 

took 
At  a  fair  vestal,    throned    by   the 

west; 
And  loosed  his  love-shaft    smartly 

from  his  bow. 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thou- 
sand hearts : 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery 

shaft 
Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the 

watery  moon. 
And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on, 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 
Yet  marked  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cu- 
pid fell ; 
It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower,  — 
Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with 

love's  wound,  — 
And   maidens  call   it  Love-in-idle- 
ness. 
Fetch  me  that  flower;   the  herb  I 

showed  thee  once. 
The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eyelids 

laid 
Will  make  a  man  or  woman  madly 

dote 
Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it 

sees. 
Fetch  me  this  herb :  and  be  thou  here 

again. 
Ere   the    Leviathan   can   swim     a 

league. 
Puck.  —  I'll  put  a   girdle    round 

about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes. 

Oberon.  —  Hast   thou    the   flower 

there  ?    Welcome,  wanderer. 
Puck.  —  Ay,  there  it  is. 
Oberon.  —  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 
I  know    a  bank  whereon  the   wild 

thyme  blows. 
Where  ox-lips  and  the  nodding  vio- 
let grows. 
Quite  over-canopied  with  lush  wood- 
bine. 
With  sweet  musk-roses,   and    with 
eglantine : 


INTELLECTUAL. 


125 


There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of 
the  night, 

Lulled  in  these  flowers  with  dances 
and  delight ; 

And  there  the  snake  throws  her 
enamelled  skin, 

Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in : 

And  with  the  juice  of  this  I'll  streak 
her  eyes. 

And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fan- 
tasies. 

Shakspeabe:  Midsummer  NigMs 
Dream. 


QUEEN  MAB. 

O  THEN",  I  see,  Queen  Mah  hath  been 
with  you. 

She  is  the  fairies'  midwife ;  and  she 
comes 

In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate- 
stone 

On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman. 

Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 

Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie 
asleep : 

Her  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spin- 
ners' legs; 

The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grass- 
hoppers ; 

The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's 
web; 

The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's 
watery  beams ; 

Her  whip,  of  cricket's  bone;  the 
lash,  of  film ; 

Her  wagoner,  a  small  gray-coated 
gnat. 

Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little 
worm 

Pricked  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a 
maid: 

Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-hut. 

Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old 
grub. 

Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies^  coach- 
makers. 

And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night 
by  night 

Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then 
they  dream  of  love ; 

On  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream  on 
court' sies  straight; 

O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight 
dream  on  fees ; 

O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on 
kisses  dream, 


Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blis- 
ters plagues. 

Because  their    breaths  with  sweet- 
meats tainted  are : 

Sometimes  she  gallops  o'er  a  cour- 
tier's nose, 

And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out 
a  suit ; 

And  sometimes  comes  she  with  a 
tithe-pig's  tail, 

Tickling  a  parson's  nose  as  he  lies 
asleep. 

Then  dreams  he  of  another  bene- 
fice: 

Sometimes  she    driveth  o'er  a  sol- 
dier's neck. 

And  then  dreams  he  of  cutting  for- 
eign throats, 

Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,  Spanish 
blades. 

Of  healths  five  fathom    deep;   and 
then  anon 

Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  he  starts, 
and  wakes. 

And,  being  thus  frighted,  swears  a 
prayer  or  two, 

And  sleeps  again.     This  is  that  very 
Mab 

That  plaits  the  manes  of  horses  in 
the  night, 

And  bakes  the  elf-locks  in  foul  slut- 
tish hairs. 

Which  once  untangled,  much  mis- 
fortune bodes. 
Shakspeake  :  Borneo  and  Juliet. 


SONG   FROM    GYPSIES'  META- 
MORPHOSES. 

The  owl    is  abroad,  the   bat,  the 

toad. 
And  so  is  the  cat-a-mountain ; 
The  ant  and  the  mole  sit  both  in  a 

hole; 
And  frog  peeps  out  o'  the  fountain ; 
The  dogs  they  bay,  and  the  timbrels 

play; 
The  spindle  now  is  a-turnmg ; 
The  moon  it  is  red,  and  the  stars  are 

fled; 
But  all  the  sky  is  a-burning. 


The  faery  beam  upon  you, 
And  the  stars  to  glister  on  you, 
A  moon  of  light 
In  the  noon  of  night, 


126 


PAilNASSUS. 


Till  the  fire-drake  hath  o'ergone  you, 
The  wheel  of  Fortune  guide  you, 
The  Boy  with  the  bow  beside  you 
Run  aye  in  the  way,  till  the  bird  of 

day, 
And  the  luckier  lot  betide  you. 

Ben  Jonson. 


THE  SONG  OF  FIOKNiUALA.* 

Silent,  O  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thy 

water. 
Break  not,  ye  breezes,  your  chain  of 

repose. 
While,  murmuring  mournfully,  Lir's 

lonely  daughter 
Tells  to  the  night-star  her  tale  of 

woes. 
Wlien  shall  the  swan,  her  death-note 

singing, 
Sleep,  with  wings  in  darkness  furled  ? 
When  will  heaven    its    sweet    bell 

ringing. 
Call    my    spirit    from    this    stormy 

world? 

Sadly,  O  Moyle,  to  thy  winter  wave 

weeping. 
Fate  bids    me   languish    long  ages 

away; 
Yet  still  in  her  darkness  doth  Erin 

lie  sleeping, 
Still  doth  the  pure  light  its  dawning 

delay. 
When    will    that    day-star,    mildly 

springing. 
Warm  our  isle  with  peace  and  love? 
When  will  heaven,  its   sweet    bell 

ringing, 
Call  my  spirit  to  the  fields  above  ? 
Thomas  Moobe. 


FAIRIES. 

Little  was  King  Laurin,  but  from 

many  a  precious  gem 
His  wondrous  strength  and  power, 

and  his  bold  courage  came ; 
Tall  at  times  his  stature  grew,  with 

spells  of  gramarye, 

*  Fionnuala,  the  daughter  of  Lir,  was, 
by  some  supernatural  power,  transformed 
into  a  swan,  and  condemned  to  wander 
over  certain  lakes  and  rivers  in  Ireland, 
till  the  coming  of  Christianity,  when  the 
first  sound  of  the  mass  bell  was  to  be  the 
Bigual  of  her  release. 


Then  to  the  noblest  princes  fellow 
might  he  be. 
Wakton  :  Little  Garden  of  Hoses, 


KUBLA  KHAN. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree : 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran, 
Through  caverns  measureless  to 
man, 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled 

round : 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with 

sinuous  rills. 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense- 
bearing  tree ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the 

hills, 
Infolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh!  that  deep  chasm  which 
slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn 
cover ! 

A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  en- 
chanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was 
haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon- 
lover  ! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless 
turmoil  seethhig, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants 
were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was 
forced : 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted 
burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  re- 
bounding hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresh- 
er's flail: 

And  'rnid  these  dancing  rocks  at 
once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred 
river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy 
motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred 
river  ran. 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measure- 
less to  man. 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless 
ocean : 


INTELLECTUAL. 


127 


And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard 

from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophecying  war ! 

The    shadow   of  the    dome   of 

pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled 

measure 
From    the    fountain    and    the 
caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves 
of  ice ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 
And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 
Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould 
win  me. 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome!   those  caves  of 

ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them 

there. 
And  all  should    cry.   Beware!   Be- 
ware ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair, 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

S.  T.  COLEBIDGE. 


ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  har- 
mony. 
This  universal  frame  began : 
From  harmony  to  harmony. 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes 

it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and 

quell  ? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded 

shell, 
His     listening     brethren     stood 

around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 


Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there 
could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot   Music   raise 
and  quell  ? 

Dryden. 


MUSIC. 

When    whispering     strains    with 

creeping  wind 
Distil    soft    passions    through   the 

heart ; 
And  when  at  every  touch  we  find 
Our  pulses  beat  and  bear  a  part ; 

When  threads  can  make 

A  heartstring  ache. 

Philosophy 

Can  scarce  deny 

Our  souls  are  made  of  harmony. 

Wlien  unto  heavenly  joys  we  faine 
Wliate'er  the  soul  affecteth  most, 
Which  only  thus  we  can  explain 
By  music  of  the  heavenly  host; 

Whose  lays  we  think 

Make  stars  to  wink, 

Philosophy 

Can  scarce  deny 

Our  souls  consist  of  harmony. 

.O  lull  me,  lull  me,  charming  air! 
My  senses  rock  with  wonder  sweet ; 
Like  snow  on  wool  thy  fallings  are ; 
Soft  like  a  spirit's  are  thy  feet! 

Grief  who  needs  fear 

That  hath  an  ear  ? 

Down  let  him  lie. 

And  slumbering  die, 

And  change  his  soul  for  harmony. 
William  Strode. 


ORPHEUS  WITH  HIS  LUTE. 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees, 
And  the  mountain-tops  that  freeze. 

Bow   themselves,    when    he    did 
sing: 
To  his  music,  plants  and  flowers 
Ever  sprung,  as  sun  and  showers, 

There  had  been  a  lasting  spring. 

Every  thing  that  heard  him  play. 
Even  the  billows  of  the  sea. 
Hung  their  heads,  and  then  lay  by. 


128 


PARNASSUS. 


In  sweet  music  is  such  art ; 
Killing  care  and  grief  of  heart, 
Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing,  die. 

Shakspeare. 


MUSIC. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a 

little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's 

golden  tongue 
Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and 

poor. 

Keats. 


THE  PASSIONS. 

AN  ODE  FOR  MUSIC. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was 

young, 
AVhile  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung. 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell. 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell, 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  faint- 
ing?, 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  paint- 
ing: 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined ; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were 

fired. 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired. 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round. 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of 

sound ; 
And  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart. 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  (for  Madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would    prove   his    own    expressive 
power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid. 
And    back   recoiled,  he    knew  not 
why. 
E'en  at  the  sound   himself   had 
made. 

Next  Anger  rushed,  his  eyes  on  fire. 
In   lightnings  owned    his    secret 
stings  : 
In  one  rude  clash   he   struck   the 
lyre. 
And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the 
strings. 


With  woful  measures,  wan  Despair 
Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  be- 
guiled ; 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas 
wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope !  with  eyes  so  fair. 
What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure. 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  dis- 
tance hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  pro- 
long; 
And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods, 
the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all 
the  song ; 
And,  where    her  sweetest  theme 

she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard 
at  every  close. 
And  Hope  enchanted    smiled,  and 

waved  her  golden  hair. 
And    longer    had    she    sung;  —  but 
with  a  frown 
Revenge  impatient  rose : 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword, 
in  thunder  down ; 
And  with  a  withering  look. 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full 
of  woe! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum,  with  furious 
heat; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary 
pause  between. 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side. 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied. 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered 

mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of   sight 
seemed  bursting  from  his  head. 
Thy  numbers.  Jealousy,  to  nought 
were  fixed ; 
Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state ; 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song 
was  mixed ; 
And  now  it  called  on  Love,  now 
raving  called  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sate  retired ; 
And  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat. 
In   notes    by  distance   made  more 
sweet, 


INTELLECTUAL. 


129 


Poured  through  the  mellow   horn 
her  pensive  soul : 
And    dashing    soft    from    rocks 

around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound ; 
Through    glades    and    glooms    the 

mingled  measure  stole, 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with 
fond  delay, 
Round  a  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  Peace,  and  lonely  musing. 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  O !  how  altered  was  its  spright- 

lier  tone. 
When  Cheerfulness,  a    nymph    of 
healthiest  hue. 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morn- 
ing dew. 
Blew  an  inspiring  air  that  dale  and 
thicket  rung, 
The  hunter's  call,  to  Faun  and 
Dryad  known ; 
The  oak-crowned  Sisters,  and  their 
chaste-eyed  Queen, 
Satyrs  and  Sylvan  Boys,  were  seen. 
Peeping  from   forth   their  alleys 
green : 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear ; 
And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized 
his  beechen  spear. 
Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial : 
He  with  viny  crown  advancing. 
First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand 
addrest ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awaken- 
ing viol. 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he 
loved  the  best ; 
They   would    have    thought,    who 
heard  the  strain, 
They  saw  in  Tempe's  vale,   her 

native  maids. 
Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades. 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed 

the  strings. 
Love    framed  with  Mirth  a  gay 

fantastic  round : 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her 

zone  unbound ; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  and  his 

play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air 
repay, 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy 
wings. 

9 


O  Music !  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid ! 
Why,  goddess !  why,  to  us  denied. 
Lay' St  thou  thine  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower. 
You    learned    an    all-commanding 

power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  ISTymph  endeared, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard ; 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art  ? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime ! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age. 
Fill  thy  recording  Sister's  page :  — 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale. 
Thy  humblest  seed  could  more  pre- 
vail. 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard 

age; 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound,  — 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavors  cease ; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece ; 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state ! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate ! 

Collins. 


A  SUPPLICATION. 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre ! 

And  tell  thy  silent  master's  humble 

tale 
In  sounds  that  may  prevail ; 
Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire : 
Though  so  exalted  she, 
And  I  so  lowly  be. 
Tell  her,  such  different  notes  make 

all  thy  harmony. 

Hark !  how  the  strings  awake : 

And,  though  the  moving  hand  ap- 
proach not  near. 

Themselves  with  awful  fear 

A  kind  of  numerous  trembling  make. 

Now  all  thy  forces  try ; 

Now  all  thy  charms  apply ; 

Revenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquests 
of  her  eye. 

Weak  Lyre !  thy  virtue  sure 

Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only 

found 
To  cure,  but  not  to  wound. 
And  she  to  wound,  but  not  to  cure. 


130 


PARNASSUS. 


Too  weak,  too,  wilt  thou  prove 
My  passion  to  remove ; 
Pliysic  to  other  ills,  thou'rt  nourish- 
ment to  love. 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre ! 
For  thou  canst  never  tell  my  humble 
tale 
In  sounds  that  will  prevail. 
Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire ; 
All  thy  vain  mirth  lay  by, 
Bid  thy  strings  silent  lie, 
Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre,  and  let 
thy  master  die. 

Cowley. 


TO  MUSIC. 

Ever  a  current  of  sadness  deep 
Through  the  streams  of  thy  triumph 
is  heard  to  sweep. 

Hemans. 


TO  THE  HARP. 

That  Instrument  ne'er  heard 
Struck  by  the  skilful  bard 

It  strongly  to  awake. 
But  it  the  Infernals  scared 

And  made  Olympus  quake. 

As  those  prophetic  strings 
Whose  sounds  with  fiery  wings 

Drove  fiends  from  their  abode, 
Touched  by  the  best  of  kings, 

That  sung  the  holy  ode. 

So  his  when  women  slew 
And  it  in  Hebrus  threw, 

Such  sounds  yet  forth  it  sent, 
The  banks  to  weep  that  drew 

As  down  the  stream  it  went. 

And  diversely  though  strong, 
So  anciently  we  sung 

To  it,  that  now  scarce  known 
If  first  it  did  belong 

To  Greece,  or  if  our  own. 

The  Di-uid^s  imbrued 
With  gore  on  altars  rude 

With  sacrifices  crowned 
In  hollow  woods  bedewed. 

Adored  the  trembling  sound. 

Dkayton. 


JEOLIAN  HARP. 

The  sea  rolls  vaguely,  and  the  stars 

are  dumb. 
The  ship  is  sunk  full  many  a  year. 
Dream  no  more  of  loss  or  gain : 
A  ship  was  never  here. 
A  dawn  will  never,  never  come. 
Is  it  all  in  vain  ? 

Allingham. 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST;     OR, 
THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC. 

'TwAs  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia 

won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  — 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne ; 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around. 
Their  brows  with  roses    and  with 

myrtles  bound 
(So     should     desert    in    arms    be 

crowned) ; 
The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of   youth    and    beauty's 

pride :  — 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave 
None  but  the  brave 
None    but  the  brave  deserves   the 

fair! 

Timotheus  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  choir 

With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre : 

The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 

The  song  began  from  Jove, 

Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above  — 

Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love ! 

A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god; 

Sublime  on  radiant  spheres  he  rode 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  prest, 

And  while    he    sought    her  snowy 

breast ; 
Then   round  her  slender  waist  he 

curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a 

sovereign  of  the  world. 
—  The  listening   crowd  admire  the 

lofty  sound ! 
A  present  deity!  they  shout  around: 
A  present  deity!  the  vaulted  roofs 

rebound ! 


INTELLECTUAL. 


131 


With  ravished  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god ; 

Affects  to  nod, 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet 

musician  sung,  — 
Of   Bacchus    ever   fair    and    ever 

young : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ! 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums ! 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face : 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath ;  he 

comes,  he  comes ! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 
Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king 

grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes, 

and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain ! 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ; 
And  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defied 
Changed  his  hand  and  checked  his 

pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 
By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen. 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate. 
And  weltering  in  his  blood ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need. 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With    downcast    looks    the    joyless 

victor  sate. 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 
The  various  turns  of  Chance  below ; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole. 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree ; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 


War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble. 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble. 
Never  ending,  still  beginning ; 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think,  it  worth  enjoying : 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee ! 
The  many  rend    the    skies  with 

loud  applause ; 
So  Love  was    crowned,  but  Music 

won  the  cause. 
The  prince   unable   to  conceal  his 

pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and 

looked, 
Sighed  and  looked  and  sighed  again : 
At  length  with  love  and  wine  at  once 

opprest 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk   upon 

her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again : 

A   louder   yet,    and   yet    a   louder 
strain ! 

Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder. 

And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal 
of  thunder. 

Hark,  hark !  the  horrid  sound 

Has  raised  up  his  head : 

As  awaked  from  the  dead 

And  amazed  he  stares  around. 

Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries. 

See  the  Furies  arise ! 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 

And  the  sparkles   that  flash  from 
their  eyes ! 

Behold  a  ghastly  band 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in 
battle  were  slain 

And  unburied  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain : 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew ! 

Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches 
on  high, 

How   they    point   to    the    Persian 
abodes 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hos- 
tile gods. 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furi- 
ous joy: 

And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with 
zeal  to  destroy ; 


132 


PAENASSUS. 


Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And     like      another    Helen,    fired 
another  Troy  I 

Thus  long  ago, 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 

While  organs  yet  were  mute, 

Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre 

Could  swell    the    soul    to  rage,  or 

kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The  sweet  «ithusiast  from  her  sacred 

store 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts 

unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 
She  drew  an  angel  down ! 

Dryden. 


ART  AND  NATURE. 

Nature  is   made   better  by   no 

mean, 
But  Nature  makes  that  mean:   so 

over  that  Art 
Which  you  say  adds  to  Nature  is  an 

Art 
That  Nature  makes.    You  see,  sweet 

maid,  we  marry 
A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock. 
And  jnake  conceive  a  bark  of  baser 

kind 
By  buds  of  nobler  race.     This  is  an 

Art 
Which  does  mend  Nature,  change  it 

rather;  but 
The  Art  itself  is  Nature. 

Shakspeare:   Winter' s  Tale. 


D^DALUS. 

Wail  for  Daedalus,  all  that  is  fairest  I 
All  that  is  tuneful  in  air  or  wave  I 
Shapes  whose  beauty  is  truest  and 

rarest. 
Haunt  with  your  lamps  and  spells 

his  grave ! 


Statues,  bend  your  heads  in  sor- 
row. 

Ye  that  glance  'mid  ruins  old. 

That  know  not  a  past,  nor  expect  a 
morrow 

On  many  a  moonlight  Grecian  wold ! 


By  sculptured  cave  and  speaking 
river, 

Thee,  Daedalus,  oft  the  Nymphs  re- 
call; 

The  leaves  with  a  sound  of  winter 
quiver, 

Murmur  thy  name,  and  withering  fall. 


Yet    are    thy   visions    in   soul  the 

grandest 
Of  all  that  crowd  on  the  tear-dimmed 

eye, 
Though,D8edalus,thou  nomorecom- 

mandest 
New  stars  to  that  ever-widening  sky. 


Ever  thy  phantoms  arise  before  us. 
Our    loftier   brothers,   but   one    in 

blood ; 
By  bed  and  table  they  lord  it  o'er 

us. 
With  looks  of  beauty  and  words  of 

good. 


Calmly  they  show  us  mankind  vic- 
torious 

O'er  all  that's  aimless,  blind,  and 
base; 

Their  presence  has  made  our  nature 
glorious, 

Unveiling  our  night's  illumined  face. 


Wail  for  Daedalus,  Earth  and  Ocean  I 
Stars  and  Sun,  lament  for  him ! 
Ages  quake  in  strange  commotion ! 
All  ye  realms  of  Life  be  dim  I 


Wail  for  Daedalus,  awful  Voices, 

From  earth's  deep  centre  Mankind 
appall ! 

Seldom  ye  sound,  and  then  Death 
rejoices. 

For  he  knows  that  then  the  mighti- 
est fall. 

John  Sterling. 


INTELLECTUAL. 


133 


CATHEDKAL. 


Almeria.  —  It  was  tliy  fear,  or  else 

some  transient  wind 
Whistling  through  hollows  of  this 

vaulted  aisle : 
No,  all  is  hushed  and  still  as  death. 

'Tis  dreadful! 
How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall 

pile. 
Whoso  ancient    pillars    rear   their  SONNET. 

marble  heads 
To  bear  aloft  its  arched  and  ponder-  |  Fkom  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the 


ous  roof. 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast 

and  immovable, 
Looking  tranquillity !    It  strikes  an 

awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight ;  the 

tombs 
And  monumental    caves    of   death 

look  cold. 
And  shoot  a  chillness  to  my  trem- 
bling heart. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear 

thy  voice ; 
Nay,  quickly  speak  to  me,  and  let 

me  hear 
Thy  voice;  —  my  own  affrights  me 

with  its  echoes. 

William  Congkeve. 


SONNET. 

Oh  how  much  more  doth   beauty 

beauteous  seem 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth 

doth  give ! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it 

deem 
For  that  sweet  odor  which  doth  in 

it  live. 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep 

a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses, 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as 

wantonly 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked 

buds  discloses : 
But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their 

show, 
They  live  unwooed,  and  unrespected 

fade ; 
Die  to  themselves.    Sweet  roses  do 

not  so ; 


Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest 
odors  made : 
And   so    of   you,  beauteous    and 

lovely  youth, 
When  that    shall  fade,  by  verse 
distils  your  truth. 

Shakspeake. 


spring, 
When  proud-pied  April,  dressed  in 

all  his  trim, 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  Youth  in  every 

thing. 
That   heavy    Saturn    laughed    and 

leaped  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the 

sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in 

hue. 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story 

tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them 

where  they  grew : 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white. 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the 

rose ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of 

delight. 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all 

those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,  and,  you 

away. 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these 

did  play. 

Shakspeare. 


TO  THE  CRITIC. 


Yex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 
With  thy  shallow  wit : 

Yex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind; 
For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 


II. 

Dark-browed     sophist,     come     not 
anear ; 


134 


PARNASSUS. 


Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 
Come  not  here. 

The    flowers  would  faint    at   your 
cruel  cheer. 

In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry 

bird  chants, 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you 

came  in. 

Tennyson. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little, 
while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn: 

Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want 
me,  sound  upon  the  bugle- 
horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as 
of  old,  the  curlews  call. 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland 
flying  over  Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance 
overlooks  the  sandy  tracts. 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring 
into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied 
casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest, 

Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping 
slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads, 
rising  through  the  mellow 
shade. 

Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tan- 
gled in  a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wandered, 
nourishing  a  youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and 
the  long  result  of  time ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a 
fruitful  land  reposed ; 

When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for 
the  promise  that  it  closed ; 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as 
human  eye  could  see ; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and 
all  the  wonder  that  would 
be.— 


In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes 
upon  the  robin's  breast; 

In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing 
gets  himself  another  crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes 
on  the  burnished  dove ; 

In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy 
lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of 
love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thin- 
ner than  should  be  for  one  so 


And 


And 


young, 

her  eyes  on   all  my  motions 

with  a  mute  observance  hung. 


I    said,     "My   cousin    Amy, 
speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to 
me. 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of 
my  being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead 
came  a  color  and  a  light. 

As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing 
in  the  northern  night. 


And  she  turned  —  her  bosom  shaken 
with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 

All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the 
dark  of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying,  "I  have  hid  my  feelings, 
fearing  they  should  do  me 
wrong;" 

Saying,  ''Dost  thou  love  me,  cous- 
in?" weeping,  "I  have  loved 
thee  long." 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and 
turned  it  in  his  glowing 
hands ; 

Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran 
itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and 
smote  on  all  the  chords  with 
might ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trem- 
bling, passed  in  music  out  of 
sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland 
did  we  hear  the  copses  ring. 

And  her  whisper  thronged  my  pulses 
with  the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 


INTELLECTUAL. 


135 


Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did 
we  watch  the  stately  ships, 

And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at 
the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted!  O 
my  Amy,  mine  no  more ! 

O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland !  O 
the  barren,  barren  shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser 
than  all  songs  have  sung. 

Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  ser- 
vile to  a  shrewish  tongue ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ?  —  hav- 
ing known  me  —  to  decline 

On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a 
narrower  heart  than  mine ! 

Yet  it  shall  be :  thou  shalt  lower  to 

his  level  day  by  day, 
What  is  fine  within  thee  growing 

coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is :  thou 
art  mated  with  a  clown. 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will 
have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion 
shall  have  spent  its  novel 
force. 

Something  better  than  his  dog,  a 
little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy: 
think  not  they  are  glazed  with 
wine. 

Go  to  him :  it  is  thy  duty :  kiss  him : 
take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that 
his  brain  is  overwrought : 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies, 
touch  him  with  thy  lighter 
thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy 
things  to  understand — 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me, 
though  I  slew  thee  with  my 
hand ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden 
from  the  heart's  disgrace, 

Rolled  in  one  another's  arms,  and 
silent  in  a  last  embrace. 


Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin 
against  the  strength  of  youth ! 

Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp 
us  from  the  living  truth ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err 
from  honest  Nature's  rule ! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the 
straitened  forehead  of  the 
fool! 

Well  —  'tis  well  that  I  should  blus- 
ter !  Hadst  thou  less  unwor- 
thy proved  — 

Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee 
more  than  ever  wife  was 
loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish 

that  which  bears  but    bitter 

fruit? 
I  will    pluck    it    from    my  bosom, 

though  my  heart    be  at  the 

root. 

Never,  though  my  mortal  summers 

to  such  length  of  years  should 

come 
As    the    many-wintered  crow    that 

leads    the    clanging   rookery 

home. 

Where  is  comfort !  in  division  of  the 
records  of  the  mind  ? 

Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love 
her,  as  I  knew  her  kind  ? 

I  remember  one  that  perished: 
sweetly  did  she  speak  and 
move: 

Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to 
look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love 
her  for  the  love  she  bore  ? 

No  —  she  never  loved  me  truly: 
love  is  love  forevermore. 

Comfort  ?  comfort  scorned  of  devils  I 
this  is  truth  the  poet  sings. 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is 
remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn 
it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to 
proof. 

In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and 
when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 


186 


PAENASSUS. 


Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and 
thou  art  staring  at  the  wall, 

Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers, 
and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee, 
pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep. 

To  thy  widowed  marriage-pillows, 
to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt 
weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  nev- 
er," whispered  by  the  phantom 
years. 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in 
the  ringing  of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking 
ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow : 
get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace ; 

for  a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine;  a  lip  to 

drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down :  my 
latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 

Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press 
me  from  the  mother's  breast. 

O,  the  child,  too,  clothes  the  father 
with  a  dearness  not  his  due. 

Half  is  thine,  and  half  is  his:  it 
will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted 

to  thy  petty  part. 
With    a    little    hoard    of    maxims 

preaching  down  a  daughter's 

heart. 

''They  were  dangerous  guides  the 
feelings  —  she  herself  was  not 
exempt  — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffered"  — 
Perish  in  thy  self -contempt ! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet  —  be  happy! 

wherefore  should  I  cai"e  ? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest 

I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to, 
lighting  upon  days  like  these  ? 

Every  door  is  barred  with  gold,  and 
opens  but  to  golden  keys. 


Every  gate  is  thronged  with  suitors, 
all  the  markets  overflow. 

I  have  but  an  angry  fancy :  what  is 
that  which  I  should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling 
on  the  foeman's  ground. 

When  the  ranks  are  rolled  in  vapor, 
and  the  winds  are  laid  with 
sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps 
the  hurt  that  Honor  feels, 

And  the  nations  do  but  mm-mur, 
snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness  ?  I  will 
turn  that  earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O 
thou  wondrous  Mother- Age ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that 
I  felt  before  the  strife. 

When  I  heard  my  days  before  me, 
and  the  tumult  of  my  life. 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement 
that  the  coming  years  would 
yield. 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he 
leaves  his  father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  high- 
way near  and  nearer  drawn. 

Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London 
flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be 
gone  before  him  then. 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in 
among  the  throngs  of  men ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  work- 
ers, ever  reaping  something 
new : 

That  which  they  have  done  but 
earnest  of  the  things  that  they 
shall  do : 

For  I  dipped  into  the  future,  far  as 

human  eye  could  see. 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and 

all  the  wonder  that  would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce, 
argosies  of  magic  sails. 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  drop- 
ping down  with  costly  bales ; 


INTELLECTUAL. 


137 


Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shout- 
ing, and  there  rained  a  ghastly 
dew 

From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grap- 
pling in  the  central  blue ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of 
the  south-wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples 
plunging  through  the  thunder- 
storm ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbbed  no  long- 
er, and  the  battle-flags  were 
furled 

In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Fede- 
ration of  the  world. 


There  the  common  sense  of  most 
shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in 
awe. 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber, 
lapped  in  universal  law. 

So    I   triimiphed   ere    my    passion 

sweeping  through  me  left  me 

dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and 

left  me   with   the   jaundiced 

eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all 
things  here  are  out  of  joint : 

Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly, 
creeping  on  from  point  to 
point : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a 
lion,  creeping  nigher. 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks 
behind  a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages 
one  increasing  purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  wid- 
ened with  the  process  of  the 
suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not 
harvest  of  his  youthful  joys. 

Though  the  deep  heat  of  existence 
beat  forever  like  a  boy's? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lin- 
gers, and  I  linger  on  the  shore. 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the 
world  is  more  and  more. 


Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lin- 
gers, and  he  bears  a  laden 
breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  to- 
ward the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me, 
sounding  on  the  bugle-horn, 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion 
were  a  target  for  their  scorn : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp 
on  such  a  mouldered  string  ? 

I  am  shamed  through  all  my  nature 
to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weak- 
ness! woman's  pleasure,  wo- 
man's pain  — 

Nature  made  them  blinder  motions 
bounded  in  a  shallower  brain : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all 
thy  passions,  matched  with 
mine. 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and 
as  water  unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens, 
nothing.    Ah,  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient, 
where  my  life  began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell 
my  father  evil-starred ;  — 

I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a 
selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  —  there 

to  wander  far  away. 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the 

gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mel- 
low moons  and  happy  skies, 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms 
in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats 
an  European  flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  wood- 
land, swings  the  trailer  from 
the  crag ; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossomed  bower, 
hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark- 
purple  spheres  of  sea. 


138 


PARNASSUS. 


There  methinks  would  be  enjoy- 
ment more  than  in  this  march 
of  mind, 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in 
the  thoughts  that  shake  man- 
kind. 

There  the  passions  cramped  no  long- 
er shall  have  scope  and  breath- 
ing-space ; 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she 
shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinewed,  they 
shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run. 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and 
hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and 
leap  the  rainbows  of  the 
brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring 
over  miserable  books  — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy! 

but  I  know  my  words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower 

than  the  Christian  child. 

I  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads, 
vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 

Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures, 
like  a  beast  with  lower  pains ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage,  —  what 
to  me  were  sun  or  clime  ? 

I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the 
foremost  files  of  time  — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men 
should  perish  one  by  one, 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at 
gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  in 
Ajalon ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons. 

Forward,  forward  let  us  range. 
Let  the  great   world    spin    forever 

down  the  ringing  grooves  of 

change. 

Through  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we 
sweep  into  the  younger  day : 

Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a 
cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not) 
help  me  as  when  life  begun : 


Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters, 
flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the 
sun. 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my 

spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well 

through  all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long 
farewell  to  Locksley  Hall ! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither, 
now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin, 
blackening  over  heath  and 
holt. 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in 
its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with 
rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring 
seaward,  and  I  go. 

Tennyson. 


HURTS  OF  TIME. 

Out  upon  Time,  who  will  leave  no 
more 

Of   the  things  to   come    than    the 
things  before ; 
Out  upon  Time,  who  forever  will 
leave 

But   enough    of    the  past   for  the 
future  to  grieve. 

Relics  of  things  that   have    passed 
away. 

Fragments  of  stone  reared  by  crea- 
tures of  clay. 

For  who  the  fool  that  doth  not  know 

How  bloom  and  beauty  come  and  go. 

And   how    disease,  and   pain,  and 
sorrow. 

May  chance  to-day,  may  chance  to- 
morrow, 

Unto  the  merriest  of  us  all  ? 

Byron. 


POET'S  MOOD. 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 
Wherein  you  spend  your  folly  I 
There's  nought  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see  it, 
But  only  melancholy ; 


INTELLECTUAL. 


139 


Oh,  sweetest  melancholy ! 
Welcome  folded  arms,  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fastened  to  the  ground, 
A    tongue    chained    up,   without  a 

sound ! 
Fountain-head  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves ! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed,  save  bats  and 

owls ! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan ! 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon ; 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still 

gloomy  valley : 
Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely 

melancholy. 
Beaumont  and  Fletchee. 


MOODS. 

Out  upon  it :  I  have  loved 
Three  whole  days  together ; 

And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 
If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me : 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 
•    Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 

Sib  John  Suckling. 


THE  SOUL'S  ERRAND. 

Go,  Soul,  the  body's  guest. 

Upon  a  thankless  errand ; 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best ; 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant : 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Go  tell  the  Court  it  glows 
And  shines  like  rotten  wood; 
Go  tell  the  Church  it  shows 
What's  good,  but  does  no  good: 


If  Court  and  Church  reply, 
Give  Court  and  Church  the  lie. 

Tell  Potentates  they  live 
Acting,  but  oh !  their  actions ; 
Not  loved,  unless  they  give, 
Nor  strong  but  by  their  factions ; 
If  Potentates  reply. 
Give  Potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 
That  rule  affairs  of  state, 
Their  purpose  is  ambition ; 
Their  practice  only  hate : 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  those  that  brave  it  most 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
Who  in  their  greatest  cost 
Seek  nothing  but  commending: 
And  if  they  make  reply. 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

Tell  Zeal  it  lacks  devotion ; 

Tell  Love  it  is  but  lust ; 

Tell  Time  it  is  but  motion ; 

Tell  Flesh  it  is  but  dust : 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  Age  it  daily  wasteth ; 
Tell  Honor  how  it  alters ; 
Tell  Beauty  that  it  blasteth ; 
Tell  Favor  that  she  falters : 

And  as  they  do  reply, 

Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  Wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  fickle  points  of  niceness ; 
Tell  Wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over  wiseness : 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  Physic  of  her  boldness ; 

Tell  Skill  it  is  pretension ; 

Tell  Charity  of  coldness ; 

Tell  Law  it  is  contention : 
And  if  they  yield  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  Fortune  of  her  blindness ; 

Tell  Nature  of  decay ; 

Tell  Friendship  of  unkindness ; 

Tell  Justice  of  delay : 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Then  give  them  still  the  lie. 


140 


PAENASSUS, 


Tell  Arts  they  have  no  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming ; 

Tell  Schools  they  lack  profoundness, 

And  stand  too  much  on  seeming : 
If  Ai'ts  and  Schools  reply, 
Give  Arts  and  Schools  the  lie. 

Tell  Faith  it's  fled  the  city; 
Tell  how  the  country  erreth ; 
Tell, Manhood  shakes  off  pity; 
Tell, Virtue  least  pref erreth: 

And  if  they  do  reply, 

Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing ; 

Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing : 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  Soul  can  kill ! 

SiB  Walter  Raleigh. 

RABIA. 

Rabia,  sick  upon  her  bed, 
By  two  saints  was  visited, — 


Holy  Malik,  Hassan  wise  — 
Men  of  mark  in  Moslem  eyes. 

Hassan  says,  "Whose  prayer  is  pure, 
Will  God's  chastisement  endure." 


Malik,  from  a  deeper  sense 
Uttered  his  experience : 

"He  who  loves  his  Master's  choice 
Will  in  chastisement  rejoice." 

Rabia  saw  some  selfish  will 
In  their  maxims  lingering  still, 

And  replied,  "  O  men  of  grace ! 
He  who  sees  his  Master's  face 

Will  not,  in  his  prayer,  recall 
That  he  is  chastised  at  all." 

Trans,  by  J.  F.  Clarke. 


IV. 


C  ONTEMPL  ATI  YE .  -  MORAL. 
RELIGIOUS. 

MAN.  —VIRTUE.  —  HONOE.  —  TIME.  —  CHANGE. 

FATE. —DEATH. —IMMORTALITY. 

HYMNS. — HOLYDAYS. 


"  Eyes  which  the  beam  celestial  view, 
Which  evermore  makes  all  things  new."  —  Keble. 


0  ONTEMPL  ATI  YE.  -  MOE  AL.  -  EELI- 
GIOUS. 


FROM  HYJ^ERION". 

As  Heaven  and  Earth   are  fairer, 
fairer  far 

Than  Chaos  and  blank   Darkness, 
though  once  chiefs ; 

And  as  we  show  beyond  that  Hea- 
ven and  Earth 

In  form  and    shape    compact    and 
beautiful, 

In  will,  in  action  free,  companion- 
ship. 

And  thousand  other  signs  of  purer 
life; 

So  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection 
treads, 

A  power  more  strong  in  beauty,  born 
of  us. 

And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 

In  glory  that  old  Darkness. 

Keats. 


MAN. 

My  God,  I  heard  this  day 
That  none  doth  build  a  stately  habi- 
tation 

But  he  that  means  to  dwell  there- 
in. 

What   house   more    stately   hath 
there  been. 
Or  can  be,  than  is  Man?  to  whose 
creation 

All  things  are  in  decay. 

For  man  is  every  thing. 
And  more.    He  is  a  tree,  yet  bears 
no  fruit ; 
A  beast,  yet  is  or  should  be  more. 
Reason  and  speech  we  only  bring. 
Parrots  may  thank  us,  if  they  are 
not  mute. 
They  go  upon  the  score. 


Man  is  all  symmetry, 
Full  of  proportions,  one  limb  to  an- 
other, 
And  all  to  all  the  world  besides ; 
Each  part  may  call  the  farthest, 
brother ; 
For  head  with  foot  hath  private  am- 
^      ity. 
And  both  with  moons  and  tides. 

Nothing  hath  got  so  far. 
But  man  hath  caught  and  kept  it 
as  his  prey. 
His  eyes  dismount  the  highest  star: 
He  is  in  little  all  the  sphere : 
Herbs  gladly  cure  our  flesh,  because 
that  they 
Find  their  acquaintance  there. 

For  us  the  winds  do  blow. 
The  earth  doth  rest,  heaven  move, 
and  fountains  flow ; 
Nothing  we  see  but  means  our  good 
As  our  delight,  or  as  our  treasure ; 
The  whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of 
food, 
Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 

The  stars  have  us  to  bed ; 
Night  draws  the  curtain,  which  the 
sun  withdraws. 
Music  and  light  attend  our  head. 
All  things  unto  our  flesh  are  kind 
In  their  descent  and  being ;  —  to  our 
mind. 
In  their  ascent  and  cause. 

Each  thing  is  full  of  Duty : 
Waters  united  are  our  navigation ; 
Distinguished,  our  habitation; 
Below  our  drink :  above  our  meat : 
Both  are  our  cleanliness.    Hath  one 
such  beauty  ? 
Then  how  are  all  things  neat. 
143 


144 


PAENASSUS. 


More  servants  wait  on  Man 
Than  he'll  take  notice  of.    In  every 

path 
He  treads  down  that  which  doth 

befriend  him 
When  sickness    makes  him   pale 

and  wan. 
O  mighty  Love !  Man  is  one  world, 

and  hath 
Another  to  attend  him. 

Since  then,  my  God,  thou  hast 
So  brave  a  palace  built,  O  dwell  in  it. 
That  it  may  dwell  with  thee  at 

last ! 
Till  then  afford  us  so  much  wit, 
That  as  the  world  serves  us,  we  may 
serve  thee, 
And  both  thy  servants  be. 

Herbert. 


HONOR 

Say,  what  is  Honor  ?  'Tis  the  finest 
sense 

Of  justice  which  the  humail  mind 
can  frame, 

Intent  each  lurking  frailty  to  dis- 
claim. 

And  guard  the  way  of  life  from  all 
offence 

Suffered  or  done. 

We  know  the  arduous    strife,  the 

eternal  laws 
To  which  the  triumph  of  all  good  is 

given, 
High   sacrifice,   and    labor  without 

pause, 
Even  to  the  death:  else  wherefore 

should  the  eye 
Of  man  converse  with  immortality  ? 
Wordsworth. 


ENGLISH  CHANNEL. 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I 
stood ; 

And  saw,  while  sea  was  calm  and 
air  was  clear. 

The  coast  of  France  —  the  coast  of 
France  how  near ! 

Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neigh- 
borhood. 

I  shrunk ;  for  verily  the  barrier  flood 


Was  like  a  lake,  or  river  bright  and 

fair, 
A  span  of  waters ;  yet  what  power  is 

there ! 
What  mightiness   for  evil  and  for 

good! 
Even  so  doth  God  protect  us,  if  we  be 
Virtuous   and  wise.      Winds  blow, 

and  waters  roll 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  Power, 

and  Deity ; 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing !  One 

decree 
Spake  laws  to  them,  and  said,  that 

by  the  soul 
Only,  the  Nations  shall  be  great  and 

free. 

Wordsworth. 


THE  PULLEY. 

When  God  at  first  made  man. 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing 

by, 

"Let  us,"  said  he,  "  pour  on  him  all 
we  can ; 

Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dis- 
persed lie. 
Contract  into  a  span." 

So  strength  first  made  away ; 
Then  beauty  flowed;  then  wisdom, 

honor,  pleasure. 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made 

a  stay ; 
Perceiving  that  alone  of  all  the  treas- 
ure 
Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

"  For  if  I  should,"  said  he, 
"  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  crea- 
ture. 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of 

me; 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of 
Nature : 
So  both  should  losers  be. 

"  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest ; 
But  keep  them,  with  repining  rest- 
lessness. 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary ;  that,  at 

least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weari- 
ness 
May  toss  him  to  my  breast." 

Herbert. 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


145 


THE  CHURCH  PORCH. 

Thou  whose  sweet  youth  and  early 

hopes  enhance 
Thy  rate  and  price,  and  mark  thee 

for  a  treasure, 
Hearken  unto  a  Verser,  who  may 

chance 
Rhyme  thee  to  good,  and  make  a  bait 
of  pleasure : 
A  verse  may  find  him  who  a  ser- 
mon flies 
And  turn  delight  into  a  sacri- 
fice. 

When   thou    dost    purpose    aught 

(within  thy  power), 
Be  sure  to  doe  it,  though  it  be  but 

small ; 
Constancie  knits    the    bones,    and 

makes  us  stowre, 
When  wanton  pleasures  beckon  us 
to  thrall. 
Who  breaks  his  own  bond,  for- 

f eiteth  himself : 
What   nature  made  a  ship,  he 
makes  a  shelf. 

By  all  means  use  sometimes  to  be 

alone. 
Salute  thyself:   see  what   thy  soul 

doth  wear. 
Dare  to  look  in  thy  chest;  for  'tis 

thine  own : 
And  tumble  up  and  down  what  thou 
find'st  there. 
Who    cannot  rest  till  he  good 

fellows  finde. 
He  breaks  up  house,  turns  out 
of  doores  his  minde. 

In   clothes,    cheap    handsomenesse 

doth  bear  the  bell, 
Wisdome'  s  a  trimmer  thing  than  shop 

e'er  gave. 
Say  not  then,  this  with  that  lace  will 

do  well ; 
But,  this  with  my  discretion  will  be 
brave. 
Much  curiousnesse  is  a  perpet- 
ual wooing, 
Nothing  with  labor,  folly  long  a 
doing. 

Entice  all  neatly  to  what  they  know 

best; 
For  so  thou  dost  thyself  and  him  a 

pleasure : 

10 


(But  a  proud  ignorance  will  lose  his 

rest. 
Rather  than  show  his  cards)  steal 
from  his  treasure 
What  to  ask   further.    Doubts 

well  raised  do  lock 
The    speaker  to  thee,  and  pre- 
serve thy  stock. 

When   once    thy   foot    enters    the 

church,  be  bare. 
God  is  more  there  than  thou;  for 

thou  art  there 
Only    by    his    permission.     Then 

beware,-! 
And  make  thyself  all  reverence  and 
fear. 
Kneeling  ne'er  spoiled  silk  stock- 
ings ;  quit  thy  state ; 
All  equal  are  within  the  churches' 
gate. 

Resort  to  sermons,  but  to  prayers 

most; 
Praying's  the  end  of  preaching.    O 

be  drest ; 
Stay  not  for  th'  other  pin :  why  thou 

hast  lost 
A  joy  for  it  worth  worlds.    Thus  hell 
doth  jest 
Away    thy   blessings,    and    ex- 
tremely flout  thee. 
Thy  clothes  being  fast,  but  thy 
soul  loose  about  thee. 

Judge  not  the  preacher;  for  he  is 

thy  judge : 
If  thou  mislike  him,  thou  conceiv'st 

him  not. 
God  calleth  preaching  folly.    Do  not 

grudge 
To   pick    out   treasures    from    an 
earthen  pot. 
The     worst     speak    something 

good :  if  all  want  sense, 
God  takes  a  text,  and  preacheth 
patience. 

Herbebt. 


HUMILITY. 

To   me    men    are    for   what    they 

are, 
They  wear  no  masks  with  me. 
I  never  sickened  at  the  jar 
Of  ill-tuned  flattery ; 
I  never  mourned  affection  lent 


146 


PARNASSUS. 


In  folly  or  in  blindness ;  — 

The  kindness  that  on  me  is  spent 

Is  pure,  unasking  kindness. 

R.  M.  MiLNES. 


THE  HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Wliose  passions  not  his  masters  are ; 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  with  care 
Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath ; 

Wlio  envies  none  that  chance  doth 

raise, 
Or  vice ;  who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by 

praise ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good : 

Who    hath    his    life    from    rumors 

freed, 
Whose     conscience     is     his    strong 

retreat ; 
Whose  state   can  neither  flatterers 

feed. 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great; 

Wlio  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend ; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend ; 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord    of   himself,    though   not    of 

lands ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  H.  WoTTOisr. 


WISDOM. 

Would  Wisdom  for  herself  be  wooed, 

And  wake  the  foolish   from  his 
dream, 
She  must  be  glad  as  well  as  good. 

And  must  not  only  be,  but  seem : 
Beauty  and  joy  are  hers  by  right ; 

And  knowing  this,  I  wonder  less 
That  she's  so  scorned,  when  falsely 
dight 

In  misery  and  ugliness. 


What's  that  which  Heaven  to  man 
endears. 
And  that  which  eyes  no  sooner  see 
Than  the  heart  says,  with  floods  of 
tears, 
"Ah,  that's  the    thing  which  I 
would  be!" 

Not  childhood,  full  of   frown  and 
fret; 
Not  youth,  impatient  to  disown 
Those  visions  high,  which  to  forget 
Were  worse  than  never  to  have 
known ; 
Not  great  men,  even  when  they're 
good: 
The  good  man  whom  the    Lord 
makes  great, 
By  some  disgrace  of  chance  or  blood 

He  fails  not  to  humiliate : 
Not  these:    but  souls,  found  here 
and  there. 
Oases  in  our  waste  of  sin, 
Where  every  thing  is  well  and  fair. 

And  God  remits  his  discipline ; 
Whose  sweet  subdual  of  the  world 
The  worldling  scarce  can  recog- 
nize. 
And  ridicule  against  it  hurled. 
Drops  with  a  broken  sting,  and 
dies; 
Who  nobly,  if  they  cannot  know 
Whether  a  'scutcheon's    dubious 
field 
Carries  a  falcon  or  a  crow. 

Fancy  a  falcon  on  the  shield ; 
Yet  ever  careful  not  to  hurt 

God's  honor,  who  creates  success. 
Their  praise  of  even  the  best  desert 
Is  but  to  have  presumed  no  less ; 
And  should  their  own  life  plaudits 
bring. 
They're    simply   vexed    at    heart 
that  such 
An  easy,  yea,  delightful  thing 
Should  move  the  minds  of  men  so 
much. 
They  live  by  law,  not  like  the  fool, 

But  like  the  bard,  who  freely  sings 
In  strictest  bonds  of  rhyme  and  rule. 
And  finds  in  them  not  bonds,  but 
wings. 
They  shine  like  Moses  in  the  face, 
And  teach  our  hearts,  without  the 
rod. 
That  God's  grace  is  the  only  grace. 
And   all   grace   is  the   grace    of 
God. 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —MORAL.  —RELIGIOUS. 


147 


Their  home  is  home;  their  chosen 
lot 
A  private  place  and  private  name, 
But,  if  the  world's  want  calls,  they'll 
not 
Refuse  the  indignities  of  fame. 

Coventry  Patmore. 


VIRTUE. 

Sweet  Day!  so  cool,  so  calm,  so 

hright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
The    dew  shall  weep    thy  fall,   to- 
night. — 

For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Rose!  whose  hue,  angry  and 

brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave ;  — ^ 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Spring !  full  of  sweet  days  and 

roses ; 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie ; 
My    music    shows     ye    have    your 

closes ;  — 

And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives ; 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn 
to  coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives. 
Herbert. 


HONEST  POVERTY. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty 

Wha  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that : 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that. 
The  rank   is    but    the    guinea 
stamp, 
The  man's  the   gowd  for  a' 
that. 

What  though  on   hamely  fare  we 
dine, 
Wear  hodden  gray,  and  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools    their  silks,   and    knaves 
their  wine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 


For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 
Their  tinsel  show  and  a'  that*, 

The  honest  man  though  e'er  sae 
poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

You  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  a  lord, 
Wha    struts,   and    stares,   and  a' 
that. 
Though   hundreds  worship    at  his 
word, 
He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that ; 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 
He  looks  and   laughs    at   a' 
that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But    an    honest    man's    aboon    his 
might, 
Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o' 
worth. 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the 
earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that, 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet  for  a'  that. 
When  man  to  man,  the  warld 
o'er. 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 
Burns. 


THE  QUIP. 

The  merry  world  did  on  a  day 
With    his    train-bands    and   mates 

agree 
To  meet  together,  where  I  lay, 
And  all  in  sport  to  jeer  at  me. 

First,  Beauty  crept  into  a  rose ; 
Which  when  I  plucked  not  —  ''  Sir," 

said  she, 
"  Tell  me,  I  pray,  whose  hands  are 

those?" 
But  thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for 

me. 


148 


PARNASSUS. 


Then  Money  came;  and,  chinking 

still  — 
"What  tune  is  this,  poor  man?" 

said  he ; 
"  I  heard  in  music  you  had  skill." 
But  thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  brave  Glory  puffing  by, 
In  silks,  that  whistled  —  "  Who  but 

he?" 
He  scarce  allowed  me  half  an  eye. 
But  thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  quick  Wit  and  Conversa- 
tion; 
And  he  would  needs  a  comfort  be, 
And,  to  be  short,  make  an  oration. 
But  thou  shalt  answer.  Lord,  for  me. 

Yet,  when  the  hour  of  thy  design 
To  answer  these  fine  things   shall 

come. 
Speak  not  at  large ;  say  I  am  thine ; 
And  then  they  have  their  answer 

home. 

Hebbert. 


ETON  COLLEGE. 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  watery  glade, 
Wliere  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade ; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse 
below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead,  survey. 
Whose    turf,  whose    shade,    whose 

flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way : 

Ah,  happy  hills  I  ah,  pleasing  shade ! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood 
strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain ! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow. 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome 
wing. 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 


Say,  father  Thames,  for  thou  hast 
seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace ; 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleaVe, 
With  pliant  arm,  thy  glassy  wave  ? 

The  captive  linnet  Avhich  inthrall  ? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed. 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 

While    some    on    earnest    business 
bent. 
Their  murmuring  labors  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours  that  bring  con- 
straint 
To  sweeten  liberty : 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign. 
And  unknown  regions  dare    de- 
scry: 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind. 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind. 
And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest ; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast : 
Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue. 
Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new. 

And  lively  cheer,  of  vigor  born ; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night. 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas !  regardless  of  their  doom. 

The  little  victims  play ; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come. 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day : 
Yet  see,  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate. 
And    black   Misfortune's    baleful 
train ! 
Ah,  show  them  where  in  ambush 

stand. 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murth'rous 
band! 
Ah,  tell  them,  they  ^re  meh ! 

These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear. 
The  vultures  of  the  mind. 

Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 
And  Shame  that  skulks  behind ; 

Or  pining  Love    shall  waste  their 
youth, 

Or  Jealousy,  with  rankling  tooth, 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


149 


That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart ; 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 


Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice, 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall 

try, 
And  hard  Unkindness'  altered  eye, 
That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to 
flow; 
And    keen    Remorse    with    blood 

defiled, 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 
Amid  severest  woe. 


Lo !  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  grisly  troop  are  seen. 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the 

veins. 
That  every  laboring  sinew  strains. 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage : 
Lo !  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band. 
That    numbs    the    soul    with    icy 
hand, 

And  slow-consuming  Age. 


To  each  his  sufferings:  all  are  men, 

Condemned  alike  to  groan ; 
The  tender  for  another's  pain. 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah!    why  should    they   know 

their  fate, 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 
And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ? 
Thought  would  destroy  their  para- 
dise. 
No  more ;  —  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 

Gray. 


LIFE. 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting ; 
And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and 

brave, 
Still  like  muffled  drums  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 


Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime. 
And  departing  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time. 


Footprints  that  x^erhaps  another. 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing  shall  take  heart  again. 

Longfellow. 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 

Stern   daughter   of   the   voice   of 

God! 
O  Duty !  if  that  name  thou  love. 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe ; 
From   vain    temptations    dost    set 

free; 
And  calm' St  the  weary  strife  of  frail 

humanity ! 


There    are  who    ask   not   if   thine 

eye 
Be   on   them ;    who,  in  love    and 

truth. 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth : 
Glad  hearts!  without  reproach   or 

blot; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
Ma-y  joy  be  theirs  while   life  shall 

last! 
And   thou,  if   they  should    totter, 

teach  them  to  stand  fast ! 


Stem  lawgiver!  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The     Godhead's    most     benignant 

grace ; 
Nor  know  we  any  thing  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face ; 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their 

beds; 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from 

wrong, 
And    the    most    ancient    heavens, 

through  thee,  are  fresh  and 

strong. 


150 


PARNASSUS. 


To  humbler  functions,  awful  power  I 
I  call  thee :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 
Oh !  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  I 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 
And,  in  the  light  of  truth,  thy  bond- 
man let  me  live ! 

WOBDSWORTH. 


CONFESSION. 

No  screw,  no  piercer  can 
Into  a  piece  of  timber  worke  and 
winde. 
As  God's  afiiictions  into  man, 
Wlien  he  a  torture  hath  designed. 
They  are  too  subtle  for  the  subtlest 

hearts ; 
And  fall,  like   rheumes,  upon   the 
tenderest  parts. 

We  are  the  earth ;  and  they, 
Like  moles  within  us,  heave,  and 
cast  about : 
And  till  they  foot  and  clutch 

their  prey. 
They  never  cool,  much  less  give 
out. 
No  smith  can  make  such  locks,  but 

they  have  keys ; 
Closets    are    halls    to    them;   and 
•         hearts,  high-ways. 

Only  an  open  breast 
Doth  shut  them  out,  so  that  they 
cannot  enter ; 
Or,  if  they  enter,  cannot  rest, 
But    quickly    seek    some    new 
adventure. 
Smooth  open  hearts    no    fastening 

have ;  but  fiction 
Doth  give   a  hold    and   handle   to 
affliction. 

Herbert. 

THE  SHIELD. 

The  old  man  said,  "Take  thou  this 
shield,  my  son, 

Long  tried  in  battle,  and  long  tried 
by  age, 

Guarded  by  this  thy  fathers  did  en- 
gage, 

Trusting  to  this  the  victory  they 
have  won." 


Forth    from   the    tower  Hope  and 

Desire  had  built, 
In  youth's  bright  morn  I  gazed  upon 

the  plain, — 
There    struggled     countless     hosts, 

while  many  a  stain 
Marked  where  the  blood  of    brave 

men  had  been  spilt. 

With  spirit  strong  I  buckled  to  the 
fight, 

What  sudden  chill  rushes  through 
every  vein  ? 

Those  fatal  arms  oppress  me  —  all  in 
vain 

My  fainting  limbs  seek  their  accus- 
tomed might. 

Forged  were  those  arms  for  men  of 

other  mould ; 
Our  hands  they  fetter,  cramp  our 

spirits  free  : 
I  throw  them  on  the  ground,  and 

suddenly 
Comes  back  my  strength — returns 

my  spirit  bold. 

I  stand  alone,  unarmed,  yet  not  alone ; 
Who  heeds  no  law  but  what  within 

he  finds. 
Trusts  his  own  vision,  not  to  other 

minds, 
He   fights  with  thee  —  Father,    aid 

thou  thy  son. 

S.  G.  W. 

THE  CONSOLERS. 

Consolers  of  the  solitary  hours 
When  I,  a  pilgrim,  on  a  lonely  shore 
Sought  help,  and  found  none,  save 

in  those  high  powers 
That  then  I  prayed  might  never  leave 

me  more ! 

There   was    the    blue,  eternal    sky 

above. 
There  was  the  ocean  silent  at  my  feet, 
There  was  the  universe  —  but  nought 

to  love ; 
The  universe  did  its  old  tale  repeat. 

Then  came  ye  to  me,  with  your  heal- 
ing wings. 

And  said,  "  Thus  bare  and  branch- 
less must  thou  be, 

Ere  thou  couldst  feel  the  wind  from 
heaven  that  springs." 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  — MORAL.  —KELIGTOUS. 


151 


And  now  again  fresh  leaves  do  bud 

for  me,  — 
Yet  let  me  feel  that  .still  the  spirit 

sings 
Its  quiet  song,  coming  from  heaven 

free. 

S.  G.  W. 


THE  SEVEN  AGES. 

All  the  world's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely 

players : 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  en- 
trances ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many 

parts. 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first 

the  infant. 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's 

arms: 
And   then    the  whining  schoolboy, 

with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping 

like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school :  and  then  the 

lover. 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful 

ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow :  then 

a  soldier. 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded 

like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick 

in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 
Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth:    and 

then  the  justice 
In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon 

lined. 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  for- 
mal cut. 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  in- 
stances. 
And  so  he  plays  his  part:  the  sixth 

age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon. 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch 

on  side. 
His  youthful    hose   well    saved,    a 

world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank ;  and  his  big 

manly  voice, 
Turning     again     toward     childish 

treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound-     Last 

scene  of  all 


That   ends    this     strange    eventful 
history. 

Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  ob- 
livion ; 

Sans  teeth,   sans    eyes,   sans  taste, 
sans  every  thing. 
Shakspeake  :  As  you  like  it. 


SUN-DIAL. 

The  shadow  on  the  dial's  face, 
That  steals  from  day  to  day. 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace, 
Moments    and    months,   and   years 

away; 
This  shadow,  which,  in  every  clime. 
Since  light  and  motion  first  began, 
Hath  held  its  course  sublime ; 
What  is  it  ?  mortal  man ! 
It  is  the  scythe  of  Time. 
Not  only  o'er  the  dial's  face, 
This  silent  phantom,  day  by  day. 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace, 
Steals  moments,  months,  and  years 

away; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree. 
From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering 

walls, 
From  Teneriffe,  towering  o'er  the 

sea. 
From  every  blade  of  grass  it  falls ; 
And  still  where'er  a  shadow  sweeps. 
The  scythe  of  time  destroys. 
And  man  at  every  footstep  weeps 
O'er  evanescent  joys. 

Montgomery. 


LIFE. 

I  MADE  a  posie  while  the  day  ran 

by: 
Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out, 

and  tie 
My  life  within  this  band. 
But  Time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers, 

and  they 
By  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal 

away. 
And  withered  in  my  hand. 

My  hand  was  next  to  them,  and  then 

my  heart ; 
I  took,  without  more  thinking,  in 

good  part 
Time's  gentle  admonition; 


152 


PARNASSUS. 


Who  did  so  sweetly  Death's  sad  taste 

convey, 
Making  my  mind  to  smell  my  fatal 
day, 
Yet  sugaring  the  suspicion. 

Farewell,  dear  flowers,  sweetly  your 

time  ye  spent, 
Fit,  while  you  lived,  for  smell  and 
ornament. 
And  after  death  for  cures. 
I  follow  straight  without  complaints 

or  grief ; 
Since,  if  my  scent  be  good,  I  care  not  if 
It  be  as  short  as  yours. 

Herbert. 


REVOLUTIONS. 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the 

pebbled  shore. 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their 

end; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which 

goes  before. 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  con- 
tend. 
Nativity  once  in  the  main  of  light 
Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being 

crowned. 
Crooked    eclipses  'gainst  his   glory 

fight. 
And  Time  that  gave,  doth  now  his 

gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set 

on  youth. 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's 

brow 
Feeds  on  the    rarities  of  Nature's 

truth. 
And    nothing    stands    but   for   his 

scythe  to  mow. 
And  yet,  to   times    in  hope,  my 

verse  shall  stand 
Praising   thy  worth,  despite   his 

cruel  hand. 

Shakspeabe. 


GOOD  OMENS. 

Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  pro- 
phetic soul 

Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on 
things  to  come, 


Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love 

control, 
Supposed  as  .forfeit    to  a  confined 

doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse 

endured, 
And  the  sad  augurs  mock  their  own 

presage ; 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves 

assured, 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  end- 
less age. 
Now  with  the  drops  of  this  most 

balmy  time 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  Death  to  me 

subscribes, 
Since  spite  of  him,  I'll  live  in  this 

poor  rhyme, 
While    he    insults    o'er    dull    and 

speechless  tribes. 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy 

monument. 
When  tyrants'  crests  and  tombs 

of  brass  are  spent. 

Shakspeare. 


THE  SKEPTIC. 

I  CALLED  on  dreams  and  visions  to 

disclose 
That  which  is  veiled  from  waking 

thought;  conjured 
Eternity,  as  men  constrain  a  ghost 
To  appear  and  answer.     Then  my 

soul 
Turned  inward,  to  examine  of  what 

stuff 
Time's  fetters  are  composed;    and 

life  was  put 
To  inquisition,  long  and  profitless. 
By  pain  of   heart,  —  now  checked, 

and  now  impelled. 
The    Intellectual    Power,    through 

words  and  things. 
Went  sounding  on,  a  dim  and  peril- 
ous way  I 

Wordsworth. 


DESTINY. 

The  Destiny,  Minister  General, 
That  executeth  in  the  world  o'er  all 
The  purveiance  that  God  hath  seen 

bef orne ; 
So  strong   it   is,  that   though    the 

world  had  sworn 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —RELIGIOUS. 


153 


The  contrary  of  a  thing  by  Yea  or 

Nay, 
Yet  sometime  it  shall  fallen  on  a  day 
That  falleth  not  eft  in  a  thousand 

year. 
For  certainly  our  appetites  here, 
Be  it  ,of  war,  or  peace,  or  hate,  or 

love,  — 
All  this  is  ruled  by  the  sight  above. 
Chauceb. 


FOKECAST. 

Or  if  the  soul  of  proper  kind, 
Be  so  perfect  as  men  find. 
That  it  wot  what  is  to  come, 
And  that  he  warneth  all  and  some 
Of  every  of  their  aventures, 
By  avisions,  or  by  figures, 
But  that  our  flesh  hath  no  might 
To  understande  it  aright. 
For  it  is  warned  too  derkely. 
But  why  the  cause  is,  not  wot  I. 

Chaucer. 


FORECAST. 

There  are  points  from  which  we 

can  command  our  life. 
When  the  soul  sweeps  the  future 

like  a  glass. 
And    coming    things,  full-freighted 

with  our  fate. 
Jut  out  dark  on  the  oflSng  of  the 

mind. 

Bailey:  Festus. 


A  POET'S  HOPE. 

Lady,  there  is  a  hope  that  all  men 
have, 

Some  mercy  for  their  faults,  a  grassy 
place 

To  rest  in,  and  a  flower-strewn, 
gentle  grave ; 

Another  hope  which  purifies  our 
race, 

That  when  that  fearful  bourn  for- 
ever past. 

They  may  find  rest,  —  and  rest  so 
long  to  last. 

I  seek  it  not,  I  ask  no  rest  forever. 
My  path  is  onward  to  the  farthest 
shores,  — 


Upbear  me  in  your  arms,  unceasing 

river. 
That  from  the  soul's  clear  fountain 

swiftly  pours. 
Motionless    not,    until    the    end    is 

won, 
Which  now  I  feel  hath  scarcely  felt 

the  sun. 

To  feel,  to  know,  to  soar  unlimited, 
'Mid  throngs  of  light-winged  angels 

sweeping  far. 
And  pore  upon  the  realms  un visited. 
That  tesselate  the  uuseen  unthought 

star, 
To  be  the  thing  that  now  I  feebly 

dream 
Flashing  within  my  faintest,  deepest 

gleam. 

Ah,  caverns  of  my  soul !  how  thick 
your  shade. 

Where  flows  that  life  by  which  I 
faintly  see,  — 

Wave  your  bright  torches,  for  I 
need  your  aid. 

Golden-eyed  demons  of  my  ances- 
try! 

Your  son  though  blinded  hath  a 
light  within, 

A  heavenly  fire  which  ye  from  suns 
did  win. 

0  Time!    O  Death!  I  clasp  you  in 

my  arms. 
For  I  can  soothe  an  infinite  cold 

sorrow. 
And   gaze    contented    on    your  icy 

charms, 
And  that  wild  snow-pile  which  we 

call  to-morrow ; 
Sweep  on,  O  soft,  and  azure-lidded 

sky. 
Earth's  waters  to  your  gentle  gaze 

reply. 

1  am  not  earth-bom,  though  I  here 

delay ; 

Hope's  child,  I  summon  infiniter 
powers ; 

And  laugh  to  see  the  mild  and  sunny 
day 

Smile  on  the  shrunk  and  thin  au- 
tumnal hours ; 

I  laugh,  for  hope  hath  happy  place 
with  me. 

If  my  bark  sinks,  'tis  to  another  sea. 
Chaining. 


154 


PARNASSUS. 


THE  UNDERTAKING. 

I  HAVE  done  one  braver  thing 
Than  all  the  Worthies  did ; 
And  yet  a  braver  thence  doth  spring, 
Which  is,  to  keep  that  hid. 

It  were  but  madness  now  to  impart 

Tlie  skill  of  specular  stone, 

When  he,  which  can  have  learned 

the  art 
To  cut  it,  can  find  none. 

So,  if  I  now  should  utter  this. 
Others  (because  no  more 
Such  stuff  to  work  upon  there  is) 
Would  love  but  as  before. 

But  he,  who  loveliness  within 
Hath  found,  all  outward  loathes ; 
For  he  who  color  loves  and  skin. 
Loves  but  their  oldest  clothes. 

If,  as  I  have,  you  also  do 
Virtue  in  women  see, 
And  dare  love  that,  and  say  so  too, 
And  forget  the  he  and  she ; 

And  if  this  love,  though  placed  so, 
From  profane  men  you  hide. 
Who  will  no  faith  on  this  bestow, 
Or,  if  they  do,  deride : 

Then  you  have  done  a  braver  thing 
Than  all  the  Worthies  did. 
And  a  braver  thence  will  spring. 
Which  is,  to  keep  that  hid. 

Donne. 


CHARACTER. 

How  seldom,  friends,  a  good  great 

man  inherits 
Honor  or  wealth  with  all  his  worth 

and  pains ! 
It  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land 

of  spirits, 
If  any  man  obtain  that  which  he 

merits, 
Or  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains  — 
For  shame,  dear  friends,   renounce 

this  canting  strain ; 
What  wouldst  thou    have    a    good 

great  man  obtain  ? 
Place,  titles,  salary,  a  gilded  chain  ? 
Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword 

hath  slain  ? 


Greatness    and    goodness    are    not 
means,  but  ends : 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always 
friends, 

The  good  great  man? — three  treas- 
ures, 7/Oue  and  Light, 

And  Calm  Thoughts    regular  as  in- 
fants' breath; 

And  three  firm  friends,  more  sure 
than  day  and  night. 

Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel 
Death. 

Coleridge. 


THAT  EACH  THING  IS  HURT 
OF  ITSELF. 

Why  fearest  thou  the  outward  foe. 

When  tliou  thyself  thy  harm  dost 
feed? 
Of  grief  or  hurt,  of  pain  or  woe. 

Within  each  thing  is  sown  the  seed. 
So  fine  was  never  yet  the  cloth, 

No  smith  so  hard  his  iron  did  beat, 
But  th'  one  consumed  was  with  moth, 

Th'  other  with  canker  all  to-freate. 

The  knotty  oak  and  wainscot  old 

Within  doth  eat  the  silly  worm ; 
Even  so  a  mind  in  envy  rolled 

Always  within  itself  doth  burn. 
Thus  every  thing  that  nature  wrought, 

Within  itself  his  hurt  doth  bear ! 
No  outward  hann  need  to  be  sought, 

Where  enemies  be  within  so  near. 
Anonymous. 


MY  MIND  TO  ME  A  KING- 
DOM IS. 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is ; 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  find 
As  far  exceeds  all  earthly  blisse 

That  God  or  Nature  hath  assigned ; 
Though    much    I    want  that  most 

would  have. 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live ;  this  is  my  stay  — 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice. 
I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway ; 
Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  sup- 
plies. 
Lo!  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king. 
Content  with  that  my  mind  doth 
bring. 


CONTEMPIiATIVE.  —  MOEAL.  —RELIGIOUS. 


155 


I  see  how  pleiitie  surfeits  oft, 

And  hasty  climbers  soonest  fall; 
I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 
These  get  with  toil,  and  keep  with 

fear; 
Such  cares    my  mind  could  never 
bear. 

No  princely  pomp  nor  wealthy  store, 
No  force  to  win  the  victory, 

No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 
No  shape  to  win  a  lover's  eye  — 

To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall ; 

For  why,  my  mind  despiseth  all. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they 
crave ; 
I  little  have,  yet  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,   though    much 
they  have ; 
And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 
They  poor,  I  rich ;  they  beg,  I  give ; 
They  lack,  I  lend ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss, 
I  grudge  not  at  another's  gaine ; 

No  worldly  wave  my  mind  can  toss ; 
I  brook  that  is  another's  bane. 

I  feare  no  foe,  nor  fawn  on  friend ; 

I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I  joy  not  in  no  earthly  blisse ; 

I    weigh    not    Croesus'    wealth  a 
straw ; 
For  care,  I  care  not  what  it  is ; 

I  fear  not  fortune's  fatal  law; 
My  mind  is  such  as  may  not  move 
For  beauty  bright,  or  force  of  love. 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will ; 

I  wander  not  to  seek  for  more ; 
I  like  the  plain,  I  climb  no  hill ; 

In  greatest  storms  I  sit  on  shore. 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toil  in  vain 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  again. 

I  kisse  not  where  I  wish  to  kill ; 

I  feign  not  love  where  most  I  hate ; 
I  break  no  sleep  to  win  my  will ; 

I  wait  not  at  the  mighty' s  gate. 
I  scorn  no  poor,  I  fear  no  rich ; 
I  feel  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

The  court  nor  cart  I  like  nor  loathe ; 

Extremes  are  counted  worst  of  all ; 
The  golden  mean  betwixt  them  both 

Doth  surest  sit,  and  fears  no  fall ; 


This  is  my  choyce ;  for  why,  I  find 
No  wealth  is  like  a  quiet  mind. 

My  wealth  is    health    and    perfect 


My    conscience    clear    my    chief 
defence ; 
I  never  seek  by  bribes  to  please, 
Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence. 
Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die; 
Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I ! 

William  Byed. 


AN  HONEST  MAN'S  FORTUNE. 

You  that  can  look  through  Heaven, 

and  tell  the  stars. 
Observe    their    kind    conjunctions, 

and  their  wars ; 
Find  out  new  lights,  and  give  them 

where  you  please. 
To  these  men  honors,  pleasures,  to 

those  ease ; 
You  that  are  God's  surveyors,  and 

can  show 
How  far,  and  when,  and  why  the 

wind  doth  blow ; 
Know  all  the  charges  of  the  dread- 
ful thunder. 
And  when  it  will  shoot  over,  or  fall 

under  : 
Tell  me,  by  all  your  art  I  conjure  ye. 
Yes,  and  by  truth,  what  shall  be- 
come of  me  ? 
Find  out  my  star,  if  each  one,  as 

you  say, 
Have  his  peculiar  Angel,  and  his 

way; 
Observe  my  fate,  next  fall  into  your 

dreams. 
Sweep  clean  your  houses,  and  new 

line  your  seams, 
Then   say  your  worst:    or  have    I 

none  at  all  ? 
Or  is  it  burnt  out  lately?   or  did 

fall? 
Or  am  I  poor,  not  able,  no  full  flame  ? 
My  star,   like    me,   unworthy  of  a 

name  ? 
Is  it,  your  art  can  only  work  on 

those 
That  deale  with  dangers,  dignities, 

and  cloathes  ? 
With  love,  or  new  opinions  ?  you  all 

lye, 
A  fishwife  hath  a  fate,  and  so  have  I, 


156 


PARNASSUS. 


But  far    above   your    finding;    He 

that  gives, 
Out  of  his  providence,  to  all  that 

lives ; 
He  that  made  all  the  stars,  you  daily 

read, 
And  from  thence  filch  a  knowledge 

how  to  feed ; 
Hath  hid  this  from  you,  your  con- 
jectures all 
Are  drunken  things,  not  how,  but 

when  they  fall ; 
Man  is  his  own  star,  and  the  soul 

that  can 
Render  an  honest,    and    a   perfect 

man 
Commands  all  light,  all  influence, 

all  fate, 
Nothing  to  him  falls  early  or  too 

late. 
Our  acts  our  Angels  are,  or  good,  or 

ill, 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us 

still, 
And  when  the  stars  are  laboring  we 

believe 
It  is  not  that  they  govern,  but  they 

grieve 
Our  stubborn  ignorance;  all  things 

that  are 
Made  for  our  general  uses  are  at  war. 
Even  we  among  ourselves,  and  from 

the  strife 
Your  first  unlike  opinions  got  a  life. 
O  man,  thou  image  of  thy  Maker's 

good, 
Wliat  canst  thou  fear,  when  breathed 

into  thy  blood 
His  spirit  is,  that  built  thee?  what 

dull  sense 
Makes  thee  suspect,  in  need,  that 

providence  ? 
Who  made  the  morning,  and  who 

placed  the  light 
Guide  to  thy  labors  ?  who  called  up 

the  night, 
And  bid  her  fall  upon  thee,  like  sweet 

showers 
In  hollow  murmurs,  to  lock  up  thy 

powers  ? 
Who  gave  thee  knowledge  ?  who  so 

trusted  thee, 
To  let  thee  grow  so  near  himself,  the 

Tree? 
Must  he  then  be  distrusted?  shall 

his  frame 
Discourse  with  him,  why  thus,  and 

thus  I  am  ? 


He  made  the  Angels  thine,  thy  fel- 
lows all. 
Nay,  even  thy  servants,  when  devO' 

tions  call. 
Oh  canst  thou  be  so  stupid  then,  so 

dim. 
To  seek  a  saving  influence,  and  lose 

him? 
Can  Stars  protect  thee  ?  or  can  pov- 
erty, 
Which  is  the  light  to  Heaven,  put 

out  his  eye  ? 
He  is  my  star;  in  him  all  truth  I 

find, 
All  influence,  all  fate,  and  when  my 

mind 
Is  furnished  with  his  fullnesse,  my 

poor  story 
Shall  outlive  all  their  Age,  and  all 

their  glory. 
The    hand    of    danger  cannot   fall 

amiss. 
When  I  know  what,  and  in  whose 

power  it  is. 
Nor  want,  the  cause  of  man,  shall 

make  me  groan ; 
A  holy  hermit  is  a  mind  alone. 
Doth  not  experience  teach  us  all  we 

can 
To  work  ourselves  into  a  glorious 

man? 
Love's  but  an  exhalation  to  best  eyes 
The    matter's  spent,  and  then  the 

fool's  fire  dyes? 
Were  I  in  love,  and  could  that  bright 

star  bring 
Increase  to  wealth,  honor,  and  every 

thing : 
Were  she  as  perfect  good  as  we  can 

aim, — 
The  first  was  so,  and  yet  she  lost  the 

Game. 
My  mistress  then  be  knowledge  and 

faire  truth ; 
So  I  enjoy  all  beauty  and  all  youth, 
And  though  to  Time  her  lights  and 

laws  she  lends. 
She  knows  no  Age  that  to  corruption 

bends. 
Friends'  promises  may  lead   me  to 

believe. 
But  he  that  is  his  own  friend  knows 

to  live. 
Affliction,  when  I  know  it,  is  but 

this, 
A  deep  alloy  whereby  man  tougher  is 
To  bear  the  hammer;  and  the  "deeper 

still,  — 


C0:NTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL—  RELIGIOUS. 


157 


We  still    arise    more  image  of  his 

will. 
Sickness  an  humorous  cloud  'twixt 

us  and  light, 
And  Death,  at  longest  but  another 

night. 
Man  is  his  own  Star,  and  that  soul 

that  can 
Be  honest  is  the  only  perfect  man. 
John  Fletcheb. 


PEACE. 

Sweet   Peace,    where    dost    thou 
dwell  ?  I  humbly  crave, 
Let  me  once  know. 
I  sought  thee  in  a  secret  cave ; 
And  asked,  if    Peace  were 
there. 
A  hollow  wind  did  seem  to  answer, 
"No! 
Go,  seek  elsewhere." 

I  did;  and,  going,  did    a    rainbow 
note: 

"  Surely,"  thought  I, 
"This    is    the  lace  of   Peace's 
coat. 
I  will  search  out  the  mat- 
ter." 
But,  while  I  looked,  the  clouds  im- 
mediately 
Did  break  and  scatter. 

Then  went  I  to  a  garden,  and  did 

spy 

A  gallant  flower,  — 
The  crown-imperial.      "Sure," 
said  I, 
"  Peace  at    the    root  must 
dwell." 
But,  when  I  digged,  I  saw  a  worm 
devour 
What  showed  so  well. 

At  length  I  met  a  reverend,  good  old 
man; 
Whom  when  for  Peace 
I  did  demand,  he  thus  began :  — 
"  There  was  a  prince  of  old 
At  Salem  dwelt,  who  lived  with  good 
increase 
Of  flock  and  fold. 

"He  sweetly  lived;  yet    sweetness 
did  not  save 
His  life  from  foes. 


But,  after  death,  out  of  his  grave 
There  sprang  twelve  stalks 
of  wheat ; 
Which  many  wondering  at,  got  some 
of  those 
To  plant  and  set. 

"It    prospered    strangely,   and    did 
soon  disperse 
Through  all  the  earth. 
For  they  that    taste    it    do  re- 
hearse, 
That  virtue  lies  therein,  — 
A  secret  virtue,  bringing  peace  and 
mirth. 

By  flight  of  sin. 

"  Take  of  this  grain,  which  in  my 
garden  grows. 
And  grows  for  you : 
Make  bread  of  it;  and  that  re- 
pose 
And    peace    which     every- 
where 
With  so  much  earnestness  you  do 
pursue, 
Is  only  there." 

Herbert. 


JOY. 

O  Joy,  hast  thou  a  shape  ? 

Hast  thou  a  breath  ? 

How  fillest  thou  the  soundless  air  ? 

Tell  me  the  pillars  of  thy  house ! 

What  rest  they  on  ?    Do  they  escape 

The  victory  of  Death  ? 

And  are  they  fair 

Eternally,  who  enter  in  thy  house  ? 

O   Joy,  thou  viewless    spirit,  canst 

thou  dare 
To  tell  the  pillars  of  thy  house  ? 

On  adamant  of  pain 

Before  the  earth 

Was  born  of  sea,  before  the  sea. 

Yea,  and  before  the  light,  my  house 

Was  built.    None  know  what  loss, 

what  gain. 
Attends  each  travail  birth. 
No  soul  could  be 
At  peace  when  it  had  entered  in  my 

house. 
If  the  foundations  it  could  touch  or 

see, 
Which  stay  the  pillars  of  my  house ! 

H.  H. 


158 


PARNASSUS. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem,  (may  his  tribe 

increase !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream 

of  peace, 
And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  the 

room, 
Making  it  rich    and    Uke  a  lily  in 

bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold ; 
Exceeding    peace    had    made    Ben 

Adhem  bold. 
And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he 

said, 
"Whatwritest  thou?"    The  vision 

raised  its  head. 
And  with  a  look  made  all  of  sweet 

accord. 
Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who 

love  the  Lord.'* 
"And  is  mine  one  ?"  said  Adhem. 

"Nay,  not  so," 
Keplied  the  angel.     Adhem    spoke 

more  low, 
But  cheerly  still,  and  said,  "  I  pray 

thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his  fel- 
low-men." 
The  angel  wrote  and  vanished;  the 

next  night 
He  came  again  with  a  great  waken- 
ing light. 
And  showed  their  names  whom  love 

of  God  had  blest. 
And  lo!  Ben  Adhem' s  name  led  all 

the  rest. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


ORTHODOXY. 

"  Nought  loves  another  as  itself, 
Nor  venerates  another  so ; 
Nor  is  it  possible  to  thought, 
A  greater  than  itself  to  know. 

"  And,  Father,  how  can  I  love  you. 
Or  any  of  my  brothers  more  ? 
I  love  you  like  the  little  bird 
That  picks  up  crumbs  around  the 
door." 

The  Priest  sat  by,  and  heard  the 

child  : 
In  trembling  zeal  he  seized  his  hair; 
He  led  him  by  his  little  coat. 
And  all  admired  the  priestly  care. 


And  standing  on  the  altar  high, 
"Lo,    what  a  fiend  is  here!"  said 

he, 
"  One  who  sets  reason  up  for  judge 
Of  our  most  holy  Mystery." 

The  weeping   child    could    not   be 

heard ; 
The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain ; 
They  stript  him  to  his  little  shirt, 
And  bound  him  in  an  iron  chain ; 

And  burned  him  in  a  holy  place. 
Where     many    had     been    burned 

before ; 
The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain : 
Are  such  things  done  on  Albion's 

shore  ? 

William  Blake. 


THE  TOUCHSTONE. 

A  MAN  there  came,  whence  none 

could  tell, 
Bearing  a  Touchstone  in  his  hand, 
And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 
By  its  unerring  spell. 

A  thousand  transformations  rose 
From  fair  to  foul,  from  foul  to  fair: 
The  golden  crown  he  did  not  spare, 
Nor  scorn  the  beggar's  clothes. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much. 
Were  many  changed  to  chips  and 

clods ; 
And  even  statues  of  the  Gods 
Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 

Then  angrily  the  people  cried, 
"The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far; 
Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are : 
We  will  not  have  them  tried." 

And,  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  his  unrelenting  quest. 
They  seized  him,  saying,  "  Let  him 

test 
How  real  is  our  jail ! " 

But  though  they  slew  him  with  the 

sword, 
And  in  a  fire  his  Touchstone  burned, 
Its  doings  could  not  be  o'erturned, 
Its  undoings  restored. 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


159 


And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm, 
They    strewed    its     ashes     on    the 

breeze, 
They  little  guessed    each  grain   of 

these 
Conveyed  the  perfect  charm. 

Allingham. 

PRAYERS. 

Isabella.  —  Hark,  how   T\\   bribe 

you. 
Ay,  with    such    gifts  that  Heaven 

shall  share  with  you. 
Not  with  fond  shekels  of  the  tested 

gold. 
Or  stones,   whose  rates    are  either 

rich,  or  poor. 
As  fancy  values  them ;  but  with  true 

pravers. 
That  shall  be  up  at  heaven,  and  enter 

there, 
Ere  sunrise ;  prayers  from  preserved 

souls, 
From  fasting  maids,   whose  minds 

are  dedicate 
To  notliing  temporal. 
Shakspeare  :  Measure  for  Measure. 


SIN. 

Lord,   with  what   care  hast   thou 
begirt  us  round ! 
Parents     first     season    us;    then 
schoolmasters 
Deliver  us  to  laws;    they  send  us 
bound 
To  rules  of  reason,  holy  messen- 
gers— 

Pulpits  and  Sundays;   sorrow  dog- 
ging sin ; 
Afflictions  sorted;    anguish  of  all 
sizes ; 
Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch  us 
in; 
Bibles  laid  open;  millions  of  sur- 
prises ; 

Blessings  beforehand ;  ties  of  grate- 
fulness ; 
The  sound  of  glory  ringing  in  our 
ears ; 
Without,  our  shame;    within,    our 
consciences ; 
Angels  and  grace;  eternal  hopes 
and  fears  — 


Yet  all  these  fences,  and  their  whole 
array. 
One    cunning    bosom-sin    blows 
quite  away. 

Herbert. 


WAYFARERS. 

How  they  go  by  —  those  strange  and 
dreamlike  men ! 
One  glance  on  each,   one  gleam 
from  out  each  eye. 
And  that  I  never  looked  upon  till 
now. 
Has  vanished  out  of  sight  as  in- 
stantly. 

Yet  in  it  passed  there  a  whole  heart 
and  life, 
The  only  key  it  gave  that  tran- 
sient look ; 
But  for  this  key  its  great  event  in 
time 
Of  peace  or  strife  to  me  a  sealed 
book. 

E.  S.  H. 


THE  STRANGERS. 

Each  care-worn  face  is  but  a  book 
To  tell  of  houses  bought  or  sold ; 
Or  filled  with  words  that  men  have 
took 
From  those  who  lived  and  spoke 
of  old. 

I  see  none  whom  I  know,  for  they 
See  other  things  than  him  they 
meet; 

And  though  they  stop  me  by  the  way, 
'Tis  still  some  other  one  to  greet. 

There  are  no  words  that  reach  my 
ear; 
Those  speak   who    tell    of   other 
things 
Than  what  they  mean  for  me  to  hear. 
For  in  their  speech  the  counter 
rings. 

I  would  be  where  each  word  is  true. 
Each  eye  sees  what  it  looks  upon ; 
For  here  my  eye  has  seen  but  few 
Who  in  each  act  that  act   have 
done. 

Jones  Very. 


160 


PARNASSUS. 


PILGRIMAGE. 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  Quiet, 
My  staff  of  Faith  to  walk  upon, 
My  scrip  of  Joy,  immortal  diet ; 
My  bottle  of  salvation ; 
My  Gown  of    Glory,    (Hope's  true 

gage) 
And  thus  I'll  take  my  pilgrimage. 

Blood  must  be  my  body's  balmer. 
Whilst  my  soul,  like  a  quiet  Palmer, 
Travelleth    towards    the    land    of 

Heaven ; 
No  otlier  balm  will  there  be  given. 
Over  tlie  silver  mountains 
Wliere  spring  the  nectar  fountains, 
Tliere  will  I  kiss 
The  bowl  of  bliss, 
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill, 
Upon  every  milken  hill; 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before. 
But  after,  it  will  tliirst  no  more. 

Siii  Walter  Raleigh. 


SLEEP. 

Tired     Nature's     sweet     restorer, 

balmy  sleep,  — 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visits 

pays 
Where  fortune  smiles :  the  wretched 

he  forsakes, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  by  a 

tear. 

Young. 


SLEEP. 

How  many  thousands  of  my  poorest 

subjects 
Are  at  this  liour  asleep!  —  O  Sleep! 

O  gentle  sleep ! 
Nature's    soft  nurse,   how    have    I 

frighted  thee. 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my 

eyelids  down. 
And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetful- 

ness? 
Why   rather,    sleep,   liest    thou    in 

smoky  cribs. 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  tliee. 
And  hushed  with  buzzing  night-flies 

to  thy  slumber ; 
Than  in  tiie  perfumed  chambers  of 

the  great, 


Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state, 
And  lulled  with  sounds  of  sweetest 

melody  ? 
O  thou  dull  god,  wliy  liest  thou  with 

the  vile. 
In  loathsome  beds;  and  leav'st  the 

kingly  couch, 
A  watch-case,  or  a  common  'larum 

bell? 
Wilt  tliou  upon  the  high  and  giddy 

mast 
Seal  up  the    ship-boy's    eyes,    and 

rock  his  brains 
In    cradle    of    the    rude    imperious 

surge ; 
And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds. 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the 

top. 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and 

hanging  them 
With  deafening  clamors  ih  tlie  slip- 
pery clouds. 
That,   witli  the  hurly,   death  itself 

awakes  ? 
Canst  thou,   O  partial  sleep!   give 

thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so 

rude ; 
And,  in  the  calmest  and  most  still- 
est night, 
With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot, 
Deny  it  to  a  king?    Then,  happy 

low,  lie  down! 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a 

crown. 
Sh  AKSPEARE :  Kiuq  Uenry  IV. 


HAMLET'S  SOLILOQUY. 

To  be,   or  not  to  be,  that  is  the 
question:  — 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to 

suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous 

fortune ; 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of 

troubles. 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them  ?  —  To 

die,  —  to  sleep,  — 
No  more;  —  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say 

we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand 

natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  —  'tis  a  con- 
summation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.    To  die; — 

to  sleep ;  — 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  — MORAL.  — RELIGIOUS. 


161 


To  sleep !  perchance  to  dream ;  —  ay, 

there's  the  rub; 
For  in   that  sleep   of    death    what 

dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mor- 
tal coil, 
Must  give    us   pause:    there's    the 

respect, 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life ; 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and 

scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud 

man's  contumely, 
The    pangs    of    despised    love,    the 

law's  delay, 
The    insolence    of    office,    and    the 

spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy 

takes, 
Wlien  he  himself  might  his  quietus 

make. 
With  a  bare  bodkin?    Who  would 

fardels  bear 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary 

life; 
But  that  the  dread   of    something 

after  death,  — 
The    undiscovered    country,     from 

whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  —  puzzles  the 

will, 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills 

we  have. 
Than  flv  to  others  that  we  know  not 

of? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards 

of  us  all. 
And  thus  the  nativ^e  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of 

thought; 
And  enterprises  of   great  pith  and 

moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn 

awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action.  —  Soft 

you,  now ! 
The  fair  Ophelia:  —  Nymph,  in  thy 

orisons 
Be  all  my  sins  remembered. 

Shakspeare. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

Keason  thus  with  life,  — 
If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep :  a 
breath  thou  art, 
11 


Servile  to  all  the  skyey  influences, 

That  dost  this  habitation,  where  thou 
keep' St, 

Hourly  afflict.  Thou  art  by  no 
means  valiant ; 

For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  ten- 
der fork 

Of  a  poor  worm :  thy  best  of  rest  is 
sleep, 

And  that  thou  oft  provok'st;  yet 
grossly  fear'st 

Thy  death,  which  is  no  more. 

Shakspeake  :  Measure  for  Measure. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know 
not  where, 

To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to 
rot: 

This  sensible  warm  motion  to  be- 
come 

A  kneaded  clod;  and  the  delighted 
spirit 

To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 

In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed 
ice; 

To  be  imprisoned  in  the  viewless 
winds. 

And  blown  with  restless  violence 
round  about 

The  pendent  world ;  or  to  be  worse 
than  worst 

Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain 
thoughts 

Imagine  howling  I  —  'tis  too  horrible  I 

The  weariest  and  most  loathed 
worldly  life, 

That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  impris- 
onment 

Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 

To  what  we  fear  of  death. 

Shakspe  are  :  Measure  for  Measure. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  MELROSE 
ABBEY. 

The  earth  goes  on  the  earth  glitter- 
ing in  gold. 

The  earth  goes  to  the  earth  sooner 
than  it  would ; 

The  earth  builds  on  the  earth  castles 
and  towers. 

The  earth  says  to  the  earth — All 
this  is  ours. 


162 


PARNASSUS. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A  WALL  IN 
ST.  EDMUND'S  CHURCH  IN 
LOMBARD  STREET,  LONDON. 

Man,  thee  behoveth  oft  to  have  this 

in  mind, 
That  thou  givest  with  thine  hand, 

that  thou  shalt  find ; 
For  widows  be  slotlif  ul,  and  children 

be  unkind. 
Executors  be  covetous,  and  keep  all 

that  they  find 
If    anybody  ask  where  the   dead's 

goods  became  ? 
So  God  help  me  and  Halidam,  he 

died  a  poor  man. 


INSCRIPTION  IN  MARBLE  IN 
THE  PARISH  CHURCH  OF 
FAVERi 
TIANO. 

Whoso  him  bethoft 
Inwardly  and  oft. 
How  hai-d  it  were  to  flit 
From  bed  unto  the  pit. 
From  pit  unto  pain 
That  ne'er  shall  cease  again, 
He  would  not  do  one  sin 
All  the  world  to  win. 


LAODAMIA. 

"With  sacrifice,  before  the  rising 
morn 

Performed,  my  slaughtered  lord  have 
I  required ; 

And  in  thick  darkness,  amid  shades 
forlorn, 

Him  of  the  infernal  gods  have  I  de- 
sired : 

Celestial  pity  I  again  implore;  — 

Restore  him  to  my  sight,  great  Jove, 
restore ! " 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  en- 
dowed 

With  faith,  the  suppliant  heaven- 
ward lifts  her  hands ; 

Wliile,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a 
cloud, 

Her  countenance  brightens  —  and 
her  eye  expands, 


Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her 

stature  grows, 
And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

O  terror !  what  hath  she  perceived  ? 
O  joy! 

What  doth  she  look  on  —  whom  doth 
she  behold  ? 

Her  hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of 
Troy? 

His  vital  presence — his  corporeal 
mould  ? 

It  is  —  if  sense  deceive  her  not  — 
'tis  he ! 

And  a  god  leads  him  —  winged  Mer- 
cury ! 

Mild  Hermes  spake,  and  touched  her 
with  his  wand 

That  calms  all  fear:  "Such  grace 
hath  crowned  thy  prayer, 

Laodamia,  that  at  Jove's  command 

Thy  husband  walks  the  paths  of  up- 
per air : 

He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three 
hours'  space; 

Accept  the  gift ;  behold  him  face  to 
face ! " 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  queen 
her  lord  to  clasp; 

Again  that  consummation  she  es- 
sayed ; 

But  unsubstantial  form  eludes  her 
grasp 

As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was 
made. 

The  phantom  parts — but  parts  to 
re-unite, 

And  re-assume  his  place  before  her 
sight. 

" Protesilaus,  lo!  thy  guide  is  gone! 

Confirm,  I  pray,  the  vision  with  thy 
voice : 

This  is  our  palace,  — yonder  is  thy 
throne ; 

Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread' st  on 
will  rejoice. 

Not  to  appall  me  have  the  gods  be- 
stowed 

This  precious  boon,  —  and  blessed  a 
sad  abode." 


"  Great  Jove 

leave 
His  gifts  imperfect : 

I  be. 


Laodamia,   doth  not 
Spectre  though 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


163 


I  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  de- 
ceive, 

But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 

And  something  also  did  my  worth 
obtain ; 

For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  bound- 
less gain. 

*' Thou  know' St,  the  Delphic  oracle 
foretold 

That  the  first  Greek  who  touched 
the  Trojan  strand 

Should  die;  but  me  the  threat  did 
not  withhold : 

A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  de- 
mand; 

And  forth  I  leaped  upon  the  sandy 
plain ; 

A  self-devoted  chief  —  by  Hector 
slain." 

"Supreme  of  heroes — bravest,  no- 
blest, best! 

Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no 
more. 

That  then,  when  tens  of  thousands 
were  depressed 

By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal 
shore ; 

Thou  found' St  —  and  I  forgive  thee 
—  here  thou  art  — 

A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor 
heart. 

"  But  thou,  though  capable  of  stern- 
est deed, 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as 
brave ; 

And  He,  whose  power  restores  thee, 
hath  decreed 

That  thou  shouldst  cheat  the  malice 
of  the  grave; 

Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips 
as  fair 

As  when  their  breath  enriched 
Thessalian  air. 

"N"o  spectre  greets  me,  —  no  vain 
shadow  this : 

Come,  blooming  hero,  place  thee  by 
my  side ! 

Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one 
nuptial  kiss 

To  me,  this  day  a  second  time  thy 
bride!" 

Jove  frowned  in  heaven:  the  con- 
scious Parcae  threw 

Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 


"  This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom 

is  past : 
Know,  virtue  were  not  virtue  if  the 

joys 

Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 

And  surely  as  they  vanish.  —  Earth 
destroys 

Those  raptures  duly  —  Erebus  dis- 
dains : 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide  —  ma- 
jestic pains. 

"Be  taught,  O  faithful  consort,  to 
control 

Rebellious  passion:  for  the  gods 
approve 

The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult  of 
the  soul; 

A  fervent,  not  ungovernable  love, 

Thy  transports  moderate ;  and  meek- 
ly mourn 

When  I  depart,  for  brief  is  my  so- 
journ "  — 

"Ah,  wherefore?— Did  not  Her- 
cules by  force 

Wrest  from  the  guardian  monster  of 
the  tomb 

Alcestis,  a  re-animated  corse, 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in 
vernal  bloom  ? 

Medea's  spells  dispersed  the  weight 
of  years. 

And  ^son  stood  a  youth  'mid 
youthful  peers. 

"The  gods  to  us  are  merciful  —  and 
they 

Yet  further  may  relent :  for  mightier 
far 

Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew, 
or  the  sway 

Of  magic,  potent  over  sun  and 
star. 

Is  love  —  though  oft  to  agony  dis- 
tressed ; 

And  though  his  favorite  seat  be 
feeble  woman's  breast. 

"  But  if    thou  goest,  I  follow "  — 

"  Peace ! "  he  said  — 
She    looked    upon    him,    and   was 

calmed  and  cheered ; 
The  ghastly  color  from  his  lips  had 

fled; 
In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien, 

appeared 


164 


PAKNASSUS." 


Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace, 
Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a 
happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  spirits 
feel 

In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable 
and  pure ; 

No  fears  to  beat  away  —  no  strife  to 
heal  — 

The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  fu- 
ture sure ; 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 

Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pur- 
sued ;  ' 

Of   all   that   is   most   beauteous  — 

imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty;    more   pellucid 

streams. 
An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air, 
And  fields  invested  with  purpureal 

gleams ; 
Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds 

the  brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is    all    unworthy  to 

survey. 

Yet  there  the  soul  shall  enter  which 
hath  earned 

That  privilege  by  virtue.  —  "111," 
said  he, 

"  The  end  of  man's  existence  I  dis- 
cerned. 

Who  from  ignoble  games  and 
revelry 

Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted, 
vain  delight. 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime, 
day  and  night : 

"And    while   my   youthful   peers, 

before  my  eyes 
(Each  hero  following    his  peculiar 

bent), 
Prepared    themselves    for    glorious 

enterprise 
By  martial  sports,  —  or,  seated  in 

the  tent. 
Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were 

detained ; 
What  time   the    fleet    at  Aulis  lay 

enchained. 

"  The  wished-for  wind  was  given :  — 

I  then  revolved 
Our  future  course,  upon  the  silent 


And,  if  no  worthier  Jed  the  way,  re- 
solved 

That,  of  a  thousand  vessels,  mine 
should  be 

The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the 
strand,  — 

Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the 
Trojan  sand. 

"  Yet  bitter,  ofttimes  bitter,  was  the 
pang 

When  of  thy  loss  I  thought,  beloved 
wife ; 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory 
hang, 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal 
life,  — 

The  paths  which  we  had  trod  — 
these  fountains — flowers; 

My  new-planned  cities,  and  un- 
finished towers. 

"But  should  suspense  permit   the 

foe  to  cry, 
'  Behold  they  tremble !  haughty  their 

array. 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to 

die?'  — 
In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away: 
Old  frailties  then  recurred :  but  lofty 

thought, 
In    act    embodied,    my  deliverance 

wrought. 

"And  thou,  though  strong  in  love, 
art  all  too  weak 

In  reason,  in  self-government  too 
slow ; 

I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blessed  re-union  in  the  shades 
below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath 
sympathized ; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  sol- 
emnized. 

"Learn  by  a   mortal   yearning   to 

ascend. 
Seeking    a    higher    object:  — Love 

was  given, 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for 

that  end: 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was 

driven  — 
That  self  might  be  annulled;   her 

bondage  prove 
The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to 

love." 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  -  RELIGIOUS. 


165 


Aloud    she    shrieked!    for    Hermes 

»  re-appears ! 

Round  the  dear  shade  she  would 
have  clung  —  'tis  vain : 

The  hours  are  past  —  too  brief  had 
they  been  years ; 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  de- 
tain : 

Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know 
not  earthly  day, 

He  through  the  portal  takes  his 
silent  way  — 

And  on  the  palace  floor  a  lifeless 
corse  she  lay. 

Ah,  judge  her  gently  who  so  deeply 
loved ! 

Her,  who,  in  reason's  spite,  yet 
without  crime, 

Was  in  a  trance  of  passion  thus  re- 
moved ; 

Delivered  from  the  galling  yoke  of 
time, 

And  these  frail  elements  —  to  gather 
flowers 

Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading 
bowers. 

Yet  tears  to  human   suffering  are 

due; 
And    mortal   hopes    defeated    and 

o'erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by 

man  alone, 
As  fondly  he  believes.  —  Upon  the 

side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  enter- 
tained ) 
A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 
From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom 

she  died ; 
And  ever,  when  such  stature  they 

had  gained 
That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to 

their  view. 
The  trees'  tall  summits  withered  at 

the  sight ; 
A.  constant  interchange  of  growth 

and  blight! 

Wordsworth. 


TITHONUS. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay 

and  fall. 
The  vapors  weep  their  burthen   to 

the  ground, 


Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and 

lies  beneath. 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the 

swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes :  I  wither  slowly  in  thine 

arms. 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 
A  white-haired  shadow  roaming  like 

a  dream 
The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls 

of  morn. 

Alas !  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a 

man  — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy 

choice. 
Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he 

seemed 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a 

God! 
I  asked  thee,  "Give  me  immortal- 
ity." 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking 

with  a  smile. 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how 

they  give. 
But    thy    strong    Hours    indignant 

worked  their  wills. 

And  beat  me  down  and  marred  and 

wasted  me. 
And  though  they  could  not  end  me, 

left  me  maimed 
To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal 

youth, 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 
And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.     Can  thy 

love. 
Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  though 

even  now. 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy 

guide. 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that 

fill  with  tears 
To  hear  me  ?    Let  me  go :  take  back 

thy  gift : 
Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men. 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 
Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most 

meet  for  all  ? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart; 
there  comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where 
I  was  born. 


166 


PARNASSUS. 


Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glim- 
mer steals 

From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy 
shoulders  pure, 

And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  re- 
newed. 

Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  through 
the  gloom. 

Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close 
to  mine, 

Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the 
wild  team 

Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy 
yoke,  arise. 

And  shake  the  darkness  from  their 
loosened  manes. 

And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of 
fire. 

Lo !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beau- 
tiful 

In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer 
given 

Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my 
cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with 

thy  tears, 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying 

learnt. 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth, 

be  true  ? 
"  The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall 

their  gifts." 

Ay  me !  ay  me !  with  what  another 

heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other 

eyes 
I  used  to  watch  —  if  I  be  he  that 

watched  — 
The  lucid    outline   forming   round 

thee;  saw 
The  dim  curls   kindle    into  sunny 

rings ; 
Changed   with    thy  mystic  change, 

and  felt  my  blood 
Glow    with    the    glow  that    slowly 

crimsoned  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while 

Hay, 
Mouth,   forehead,    eyelids,   growing 

dewy-wann 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-open- 
ing buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips 

that  kissed 


Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild 

and  sweet, 
Like    that    strange    song    I    heard 

Apollo  sing. 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into 

towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  forever  in  thine 

East: 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with 

thine  ? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me, 

cold 
Are  all    thy    lights,    and    cold    my 

wrinkled  feet 
Upon    thy    glimmering    thresholds, 

when  the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about 

the  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power 

to  die, 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier 

dead. 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the 

ground ; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see 

my  grave : 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by 

morn : 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty 

courts. 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver 

wheels. 

Tennyson. 


COME  MORIR. 


He 


leaves    the    earth,    and   says, 

enough  and  more 
Unto  thee  have  I  given,  oh  Earth.  — 

For  all 
With  hand  free  and  ungrudging  gave 

lup,— 
But  now  I  leave  thy  pale  hopes  and 

dear  pains. 
The  rude  fields  where  so  many  years 

I've  tilled, 
And  where  no  other  feeling  gave  me 

strength. 
Save  that  from  them  my  home  was 

aye  in  view, 
For  only  transient  clouds  could  hide 

from  me 
My  spirit's  home,  whence  it  came, 

where  should  go ;  — 
Enough,  more  than  enough,  now  let 

me  rest. 

S.  G.  W 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —RELIGIOUS. 


167 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  FUNERAL. 

Ye    sigh    not  when    the    sun,   his 
course  fulfilled, 
His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth 
and  sky, 

In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds 
are  stilled. 
Sinks  where  his  islands  of  refresh- 
ment lie. 

And  leaves  the  smile  of  his  departure 
spread 

O'er  the  warm-colored  heaven  and 
ruddy  mountain  head. 

Why  weep  ye   then   for  him,  who, 
having  won 
The  bound    of   man's  appointed 
years,  at  last, 
Life's  blessings  all    enjoyed,    life's 
labors  done. 
Serenely    to    his    final    rest    has 
passed ; 
While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues 

yet 
Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the 
bright  sun  is  set  ? 

Bbyant. 


DEATH'S  FINAL  CONQUEST. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow, 
Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty 
deeds ; 
Upon  death's  purple  altar  now. 
See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds : 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb ; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the 
dust. 

James  Shirley. 


STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  THE 
CHURCHYARD  OF  RICH- 
MONT),  YORKSHIRE. 

"  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here :  if  thou 
wilt,  let  us  make  here  three  tabernacles, 
one  for  thee,  one  for  Moses,  and  one  for 
Elias."  —St.  Matthew. 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here. 

If  thou  wilt  let  us  build, — but  for 

whom  ? 
Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear ; 


But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encom- 
pass with  gloom 

The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place 
of  the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?  Ah,  no ! 
Affrighted,  he  shrinketh  away,  — 
For  see,  they  would  pin  him  below 
In  a  dark  narrow  cave,  and,  begirt 

with  cold  clay, 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  fear  and 

a  prey. 

To  Beauty  ?    Ah,  no !  she  forgets 

The  charms  which  she  wielded  be- 
fore. 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm  that  he 
frets 

The  skin  that  but  yesterday  fools 
could  adore, 

For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the 
tint  which  it  wore. 

Shall  we  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride, 
The    trappings    which    dizen    the 

proud  ? 
Alas !  they  are  all  laid  aside, 
And  here's  neither  dress  nor  adorn- 
ment allowed. 
Save  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the 
fringe  of  the  shroud. 

To  Riches  ?    Alas,  'tis  in  vahi ; 
Who  hide  in  their  turns  have  been 

hid; 
The  treasures  are  squandered  again ; 
And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals 

forbid. 
Save  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the 

dark  coffin  lid. 

To  the  pleasures  which  Mirth  can 

afford. 
The  revel,  the  laugh  and  the  jeer? 
Ah !  here  is  a  plentiful  board ! 
But  the  guests  are  all  mute  at  their 

pitiful  cheer. 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller 

here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love  ? 
Ah,  no!    They  have  withered  and 

died, 
Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above : 
Friends,   brothers,  and  sisters,  are 

laid  side  by  side. 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none 

have  replied. 


168 


PARNASSUS. 


Unto  Sorrow?  The  dead  cannot 
grieve; 

Not  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine 
ear, 

Which  Compassion  itself  could  re- 
lieve. 

Ah,  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  love, 
hope,  or  fear. 

Peace,  peace !  is  the  watchword,  the 
only  one  here. 


Unto   Death,    to    whom   monarchs 

must  bow  ? 
Ah,  no !  for  his  empire  is  known, 
And  here  there  are  trophies  enow ! 
Beneath  the  cold  head,  and  around 

the  dark  stone, 
Are  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none 

may  disown. 


The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will 

build. 
And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us 

to  rise ! 
The  second  to  Faith,  which  insures 

it  fulfilled ; 
And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the 

great  sacrifice. 
Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when 

he  rose  to  the  skies. 

Herbert  Knowles. 


THANATOPSIS. 

.  .  .  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no 

more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold 

ground, 
Wliere  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with 

many  tears. 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall 

exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished 

thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth 

again ; 
And   lost  each  human    trace,   sur- 
rendering up 


Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou 

go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements. 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the 

rude  swain 
Turns  with  his    share,   and  treads 

upon.     The  oak 
Shall    send    his    roots  abroad,   and 

pierce  thy  mould. 
Yet  not  to  thy  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone  —  nor  couldst 

thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.   Thou  shalt 

lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world, 

—  with  kings. 

The    powerful  of    the    earth,  —  the 

wise,  the  good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages 

past. 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The 

hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, 

—  the  vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  be- 
tween ; 
The  venerable  woods, — rivers  that 

move 
In    majesty,   and    the    complaining 

brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and 

poured  round  all. 
Old  ocean's    gray  and    melancholy 

waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of    the  great  tomb  of  man.     The 

golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of 

heaven. 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of 

death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All 

that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the 

tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  .  .  . 

So  live,  that  when    thy  summons 

comes  to  join 
The     innumerable     caravan,     that 

moves 
To  that    mysterious    realm,   where 

each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of 

death, 
Thou  go  not,  lil^e  the  quarry-slave 

at  night. 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


169 


Sccurged  to  his  dungeon,  but  sus- 
tained and  soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach 
thy  grave, 

Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of 
his  couch 

About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleas- 
ant dreams. 

Bryant. 


TO  BE  NO  MORE. 

To  be  no  more  —  sad  cure ;  for  who 

would  lose 
Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual 

being, 
Those  thoughts  that  wander  through 

eternity, 
To  perish  rather,  swallowed  up  and 

lost 
In    the   wide    womb    of    uncreated 

night. 
Devoid  of  sense  and  motion  ? 

Milton. 


LIFE. 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art. 
But  know  that    thou    and  I  must 

part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we 

met, 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 

Life!  we've  been  long  together. 

Through     pleasant     and     through 
cloudy  weather ; 

'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are 
dear  — 

Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warn- 
ing, 

Choose  thine  own  time ; 

Say  not  Good-night, —but  in  some 
brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good-morning. 

Barbauld. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUN- 
TRY CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting 
day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er 
the  lea. 


The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his 
weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness 
and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape 
on  the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness 
holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his 
droning  flight. 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  dis- 
tant folds  : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled 
tower. 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon 
complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  se- 
cret bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath    those    rugged    elms,   that 
yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a 
mouldering  heap. 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet 
sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing 
morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the 
straw-built  shed. 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echo- 
ing horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from 
their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth 
shall  burn. 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening 
care ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's 
return. 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss 
to  share. 

Oft  did  the  hai-vest  to  their  sickle 
yield. 
Their    furrow    oft    the    stubborn 
glebe  has  broke : 
How  jocund    did   they  drive    their 
team  afield ! 
How  bowed  the  woods    beneath 
their  stui'dy  stroke ! 


170 


PARNASSUS. 


Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful 
toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  ob- 
scure ; 
Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful 
smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the 
poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of 
power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth, 
e'er  gave. 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour. 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the 
grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these 
the  fault, 
K  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  tro- 
phies raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle 
and  fretted  vault 
The   pealing   anthem  swells    the 
note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust. 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleet- 
ing breath  ? 
Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the   si- 
lent dust. 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear 
of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once    pregnant  with 

celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might 

have  swayed. 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre : 

But  knowledge    to   their  eyes    her 
ample  page. 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did 
ne'er  unroll; 
Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble 
rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of 
the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  se- 
rene 
The  dark  unfathomed    caves    of 
ocean  bear : 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush 
unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the 
desert  air. 


Some  village-Hampden,  that,  with 
dauntless  breast. 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  with- 
stood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here 
may  rest. 
Some   Cromwell  guiltless    of  his 
country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to 
command. 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to 
despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  na- 
tion's eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circumscribed 
alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their 
crimes  confined ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter 
to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on 
mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious 
truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenu- 
ous shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's 
flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  igno- 
ble strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned 
to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of 
their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to 
protect. 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected 
nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless 
sculpture  decked. 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a 
sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the 
unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she 
strews. 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to 
die. 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAX.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


171 


For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a 
prey, 
This  pleasing  auxious  being  e'er 
resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheer- 
ful day, 
Nor  cast    one    longing,   lingering 
look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul 
relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye 
requires ; 
E'en   from  the  tomb  the  voice  of 
Nature  cries. 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wont- 
ed fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  un- 
honored  dead, 
Dost  in  these    lines  their  artless 
tale  relate ; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation 
led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire 
thy  fate,  — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may 
say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the 
peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews 
away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland 
lawn: 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nod- 
ding beech, 
That  wreathes    its    old    fantastic 
roots  so  high. 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would 
he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  bab- 
bles by. 

*'  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as 
in  scorn. 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he 
would  rove ; 
Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one 
forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in 
hopeless  love. 

"One  mom  I  missed  him  on  the 
accustomed  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  fa- 
vorite tree ; 


Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the 
rill. 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood, 
was  he : 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad 
array, 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path 
we  saw  him  borne :  — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst 
read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon 
aged  thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of 
earth, 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame 
unknown : 
Fair  Science  frowned    not    on    his 
humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for 
her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul 
sincere, 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  large- 
ly send ; 
He  gave    to  misery  (all  he  had)   a 
tear, 
He  gained  from  heaven  ('twas  all 
he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  dis- 
close. 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their 
dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope 
repose, ) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his 
God. 

Gray. 


THE  SKULL. 

Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the 

scattered  heaps : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  god  may 

dwell  ? 
Why  even  the  worm  at  last  disdains 

her  shattered  cell ! 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruined 

wall. 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals 

foul: 


172 


PARNASSUS. 


Yes,  this  was  once  Ambition's  airy- 
hall, 

The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace 
of  the  Soul : 

Behold  through  each  lack-lustre, 
eyeless  hole, 

The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of 
Wit, 

And  Passion's    host,   that    never 
brooked  control : 

Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever 
writ. 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tene- 
ment refit  ? 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deemed, 

there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable 

shore. 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sad- 

ducee. 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubi- 
ous lore ; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to 

adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal 

labors  light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  feared  to 

hear  no  more ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  revealed 

to  sight, 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all 
who  taught  the  right ! 

Byron  :  Childe  Harold. 


THE  IMMORTAL  MIND. 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering 
clay. 
Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal 
mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay. 
But  leaves  its  darkened  dust  be- 
hind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 
By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly 
way? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 
A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecayed, 
A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 

All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  displayed. 
Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 

^ach    fainter    trace    that    memory 
holds, 


So  darkly  of  departed  years, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  be- 
holds, 
And  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  creation  peopled  earth, 
Its  eyes  shall  roll  through  chaos 
back; 
And  where  the  farthest  heaven  had 
birth, 
The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And    where    the    future    mars    or 
makes. 
Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be. 
While  sun   is  quenched  or  system 
breaks. 
Fixed  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  love,  hope,  hate,  or  fear. 

It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure : 
An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year ; 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  wing, 

O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thoughts 
shall  fly ; 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing, 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 

Bykon. 


CELINDA. 

Walking  thus  towards  a  pleasant 

grove. 
Which  did,  it  seemed,  in  new  delight 
The  pleasures  of  the  time  unite 
To  give  a  triumph  to  their  love,  — 
They    staid    at    last,    and    on    the 

grass 
Reposed  so  as  o'er  his  breast 
She    bowed  her  gracious    head    to 

rest, 
Such  a  weight  as  no  burden  was. 
Long  their  fixed  eyes  to  heaven  bent, 
Unchanged  they  did  never  move, 
As  if  so  great  and  pure  a  love 
No  glass  but  it  could  represent. 
"  These  eyes  again  thine  eyes  shall 

see, 
Thy  hands  again  these  hands  infold. 
And  all  chaste  pleasures  can  be  told 
Shall  with  us  everlasting  be. 
Let  then  no  doubt,  Celinda,  touch. 
Much  less  your  fairest  mind  invade ; 
Were  not  our  souls  immortal  made. 
Our  equal  loves    can    make    them 

such." 

Lord  Edwabd  Herbert. 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


173 


EUTHANASIA. 

But  souls  that  of  his  own  good  life 
partake, 

He  loves  as  his  own  self ;  dear  as  his 
eye 

They  are  to  him :  He'll  never  them 
forsake : 

When  they  shall  die,  then  God  him- 
self shall  die ; 

They  live,  they  live  in  blest  eternity. 
Henky  More. 


THE  RETREAT. 

Happy  those  early  days  when  I 
Shined  in  my  angel-infancy ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 
And    looking    back,   at   that    short 

space 
Could  see  a  glimpse   of  his  bright 

face; 
When    on    some    gilded     cloud    or 

flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity : 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense ; 
But   felt    through   all   this    fleshly 

dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back. 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that 

plain 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train, 
From  whence  the  enlightened  spirit 

sees 
That  shady  city  of  palm-trees. 
But  ah !   my  soul  with    too    much 

stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But    I    by    backward    steps    would 

move; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn. 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

Henry  Vaughan. 


IMMORTALITY, 

"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety.' 


I. 


There  was   a  time  when  meadow, 

grove,  and  stream. 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight. 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a 

dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of 
yore ; — 
Turn  whereso'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now 
can  see  no  more. 


II. 


The  rainbow  comes  and  goes. 
And  lovely  is  the  rose ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens 
are  bare ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory 
from  the  earth. 

III. 

Now,   while  the  birds  thus  sing  a 
joyous  song. 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound. 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought 

of  grief: 
A     timely     utterance     gave     that 
thought  relief, 
And  I  again  am  strong : 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets 

from  the  steep ; 
No  more   shall  grief    of    mine  the 

season  wrong ; 
I    hear    the    echoes    through    the 

mountains  throng. 
The  winds  come  to  me  from   the 
fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 

Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 


174 


PARNASSUS. 


And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday ; 
Thou  child  of  joy, 
Shout  round  me,   let  me  hear  thy 
shouts,  thou  happy  shepherd- 
boy  I 


IV. 


Ye  bless&d  creatures,  I  have  heard 
the  call 
Ye  to  each  other  make ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your 
jubilee; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I 
feel  it  ail. 
Oh  evil  day !  if  I  were  sullen 
While    the    earth    herself    is 
adorning, 
This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  cliildren  are  culling 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and 

wide, 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun 
shines  warm, 
And     the    babe    leaps    up    on    his 
mother's  arm:  — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear  I 
—  But  there's  a  tree,  of  many 
one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked 

upon. 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something 
tliat  is  gone : 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Wliither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the 
dream  ? 


V. 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  for- 
getting: 
The   soul   that    rises    with  us,   our 
life's  star. 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  Cometh  from  afar : 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we 
come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven    lies   about    us    in  our  in- 
fancy ! 


Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to 
close 

Upon  the  growing  boy. 
But     he     beholds     the    light,    and 
whence  it  flows. 
He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from 
the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die 

away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common 
day. 

VI. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of 

her  own; 
Yearnings    she    hath    in    her    own 

natural  kind. 
And,   even    with    something    of    a 
mother's  mind. 

And  no  unworthy  aim. 
The  homely  nurse  dotli  all  she  can 
To    make  her  foster-child,  her  in- 
mate man. 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he 


VII. 

Behold  the  child  among  his   new- 
born blisses, 
A  six  years'   darling  of    a    pygmy 

size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own 

hand  he  lies. 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's 

kisses, 
With    light    upon    him     from    his 

father's  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or 

chart. 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of 

human  life. 
Shaped    by    himself    with    newly- 
learned  art; 
A  wedding  or  a  festival, 
A  mourn  inj;  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart. 
And  unto  this  he    frames    his 
song : 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or 
strife ; 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  EELIGIOUS. 


176 


But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 
And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "hu- 
morous stage" 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  pal- 
sied age, 
That  Life   brings  with  her  in  her 
equipage ; 
As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 

vni. 

Thou,    whose     exterior    semblance 

doth  belie 
Thy  soul's  immensity; 
Thou    best    philosopher,    who    yet 

dost  keep 
Thy  heritage;  thou  eye   among  the 

blind. 
That,   deaf   and   silent,  read'st  the 

eternal  deep, 
Haunted    forever    by    the    eternal 

mind,  — 
Mighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest ! 
On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to 

find; 
(In  darkness   lost,   the   darkness  of 

the  grave ;) 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a 

slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little    child,   yet  glorious    in 

the  might 
Of    heaven-born    freedom,    on    thy 

being's  height. 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost 

thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at 

strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall   have  her 

earthly  freight. 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a 

weight. 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as 

life! 


O  joy !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live. 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 


The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me 

doth  breed 
Perpetual  benedictions :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be 

blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of    childhood,   whether  busy  or  at 

rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  flutter- 
ing in  his  breast :  — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  question- 
ings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  Instincts,   before    which    our 

mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  sur- 
prised : 
But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our 

day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  see- 
ing; 
Uphold    us,    cherish,    and    have 
power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in 

the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence:  truths  that 
wake, 
To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad 
endeavor. 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 
Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls   have  sight  of  that  im- 
mortal sea 
Which  brought  us  hither. 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the 

shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling 
evermore. 


X. 


Then  sing,   ye  birds,   sing,   sing  a 
joyous  song ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 


176 


PARNASSUS. 


We    in    thought    will    join    your 
throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to- 
day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 
What  though   the    radiance  which 

was  once  so  bright 
Be    now   forever    taken    from    my 
sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back 
the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in 
the  flower ; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains   be- 
hind. 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been,  must  ever 

be; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that 

spring 
Out  of  human  suffering ; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through 
death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic 
mind. 


And    O    ye    fountains,    meadows, 

hills,  and  groves. 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our 

loves ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your 

might ; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight, 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual 

sway. 
I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their 

channels  fret. 
Even  more    than   when    I    tripped 

lightly  as  they : 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new- 
born day 
Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the 

setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an 

eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's 

mortality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other 

palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which 

we  live ; 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys, 

and  fears, 


To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows 

can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep 

for  tears. 

Wordsworth. 


LOYE   AND    HUMILITY. 

Far  have  I  clambered  in  my  mind. 
But  nought  so  great  as  love  I  find : 
Deep-searching  wit,   mount-moving 

might, 
Are  nought,  compared  to  that  good 

sprite. 
Life  of  delight,  and  soul  of  bliss ! 
Sure  source  of  lasting  happiness ! 
Higher  than  heaven !  lower  than  hell ! 
What    is    thy  tent?    Where  mayst 

thou  dwell  ? 

My  mansion  hight  humility, 
Heaven's  vastest  capability. 
The  further  it  doth  downward  bend, 
The  higher  up  it  doth  ascend ; 
If  it  go  down  to  utmost  nought, 
It  shall  return  with  what  it  sought. 

Could  I  demolish  with  mine  eye 
Strong  towers ;  stop  the  fleet  stars  in 

sky. 
Bring  down  to  earth  the  pale-faced 

moon. 
Or  turn  black  midnight  to  bright 

noon ; 
Though  all  things  were  put  in  my 

hand,  — 
As  parched,  as  dry,  as  Libyan  sand 
Would  be  my  life,  if  Charity 
Were  wanting.     But  Humility 
Is  more  than  my  poor  soul  durst  crave, 
That  lies  entombed  in  lowly  grave. 
But  if  'twere  lawful  up  to  send 
My  voice  to  heaven,,  this  should  it 

rend. 
Lord,  thrust  me  deeper  into  dust, 
That  thou  mayst  raise  me  with  the 

just. 

Henry  More. 


MY  LEGACY. 

They  told  me  I  was  heir :  I  turned 

in  haste, 
And  ran  to  seek  my  treasure, 
And  wondered  as,  I  ran,  how  it  was 

placed, — 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


177 


If  I  should  find  a  measure 
Of  gold,  or  if  the  titles  of  fair  lands 
And  houses  would  be  laid  within  my 
hands. 

I  journeyed  many  roads ;  I  knocked 

at  gates ; 
I  spoke  to  each  wayfarer 
I  met,  and  said,  "  A  heritage  awaits 
Me.     Art  not  thou  the  bearer 
Of  news  ?  some  message  sent  to  me 

whereby 
I  learn  which  way  my  new  posses- 
sions lie?" 

Some  asked  me -in;  nought  lay  be- 
yond their  door; 

Some  smiled,  and  would  not  tarry, 

But  said  that  men  were  just  behind 
who  bore 

More  gold  than  I  could  carry ; 

And  so  the  morn,  the  noon,  the  day, 
were  spent, 

While  empty  handed  up  and  down  I 
went. 

At  last  one  cried,  whose  face  I  could 

not  see, 
As  through  the  mists  he  hasted ; 
"Poor  child,  what  evil  ones  have 

hindered  thee. 
Till  this  whole  day  is  wasted? 
Hath  no  man  told  thee  that  thou  art 

joint  heir 
With  one  named  Christ,  who  waits 

the  goods  to  share  ?  " 

The  one  named  Christ  I  sought  for 
many  days. 

In  many  places  vainly ; 

I  heard  men  name  his  name  in  many 
ways ; 

I  saw  his  temples  plainly; 

But  they  who  named  him  most  gave 
me  no  sign 

To  find  him  by,  or  prove  the  heir- 
ship mine. 

And  when  at  last  I  stood  before  his 

face, 
I  knew  him  by  no  token 
Save  subtle  air  of  joy  which  filled 

the  place ; 
Our  greeting  was  not  spoken ; 
In  solemn   silence    I    received    my 

share. 
Kneeling    before    my    brother    and 

"joint  heir." 

12 


My  share!    No    deed    of  house    or 

spreading  lands, 
As  I  had  dreamed ;  no  measure 
Heaped    up   with    gold;    my    elder 

brother's  hands 
Had  never  held  such  treasure. 
Foxes  have  holes,  and  birds  in  nests 

are  fed : 
My  brother  had  not  where  to  lay  his 

head. 

My  share!    The  right  like  him  to 

know  all  pain 
Which  hearts  are  made  for  knowing ; 
The  right  to  find  in  loss  the  surest 

gain ; 
To  reap  my  joy  from  sowing 
In  bitter  tears ;  the  right  with  him 

to  keep 
A  watch  by  day  and  night  with  all 

who  weep. 

My  share !  To-day  men  call  it  grief 

and  death ; 
I  see  the  joy  and  life  to-morrow ; 
I  thank  my  Father  with  my  every 

breath. 
For  this  sweet  legacy  of  sorrow ; 
And  through  my  tears  I  call  to  each 

"  joint  heir 
With  Christ,  make  haste  to  ask  him 

for  thy  share." 

H.  H. 


DIVINE  LOYE. 

Thou  hidden  love  of  God!  whose 
height. 
Whose  depth  unfathomed,  no  man 
knows  — 
I  see  from  far  thy  beauteous  light, 

Inly  I  sigh  for  thy  repose. 
My  heart  is  pained ;  nor  can  it  be 
At  rest  till  it  finds  rest  in  Thee. 

Thy  secret  voice  invites  me  still 
The  sweetness  of  Thy  yoke  to  prove ; 

And  fain  I  would ;  but  though  my  will 
Seem  fixed,  yet  wide  my  passions 
rove ; 

Yet  hindrances  strew  all  the  way  — 

I  aim  at  Thee,  yet  from  Thee  stray. 

'Tis    mercy    all,    that    Thou    hast 
brought 
My  mind  to    seek   her  peace  in 
Thee! 


178 


PARNASSUS. 


Yet  while  I  seek,  but  find  Thee  not, 
No  peace  my  wandering  soul  shall 
see. 
O  when    shall    all    my  wanderings 

end. 
And  all  my  steps  to  Theeward  tend  ? 

Is  there  a  thing  beneath  the  sun 
That  strives  with  Thee  my  heart 
to  share  ? 
Ah,  tear  it  thence,  and  reign  alone  — 

The  Lord  of  every  motion  there ! 
Then  shall  my  heart  from  earth  be 

free. 
When  it  hath  found  repose  in  Thee. 
Gerhard  Tersteegen: 
Trans,  by  John  Wesley. 


MORAVIAN  HYMN. 

O  DRAW  me,  Father,  after  thee. 
So  shall  I  run  and  never  tire : 
With  gracious  words  still  comfort 

me; 
Be  thou  my  hope,  my  sole  desire ; 
Free  me  from    every  weight;    nor 

fear 
Nor  sin  can  come,  if  thou  art  here. 

From  all  eternity,  with  love 
Unchangeable  thou  hast  me  viewed ; 
Ere    knew   this    beating   heart    to 

move. 
Thy  tender  mercies  me  pursued ; 
Ever  with  me  may  they  abide, 
And  close  me  in  on  every  side. 

In  suffering,  be  thy  love  my  peace ; 
In  weakness,  be  thy  love  my  power; 
And  when  the  storms  of  life  shall 

cease. 
My  God !  in  that  transcendent  hour. 
In  death  as  life  be  thou  my  guide, 
And      bear      me    through    death's 

whelming  tide. 

John  Wesley. 


PSALM  XCIII. 

Clothed  with  state,  and  girt  with 
might, 

Monarch-like  Jehovah  reigns. 
He  who  earth's  foundation  pight* — 

Pight  at  first,  and  yet  sustains ; 

♦Pitched. 


He  whose  stable  throne  disdains 
Motion's  shock  and  age's  flight; 

He  who  endless  one  remains 
One,  the  same,  in  changeless  plight. 

Rivers,  — yea  though  rivers  roar. 

Roaring  though  sea-billows  rise. 
Vex    the     deep,    and      break     the 
shore,  — 

Stronger  art  thou.  Lord  of  skies ! 

Firai  and  true  thy  promise  lies 
Now  and  still  as  heretofore : 

Holy  worship  never  dies 
In  thy  house  where  we  adore. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


PSALM  CXXXIX. 

O  Lord  in  me  there  lieth  nought 
But  to  thy  search  revealed  lies ; 
For  when  I  sit 
Thou  markest  it ; 
Nor  less  thou  notest  when  I  rise : 
Yea,  closest  closet  of  my  thought 
Hath  open  windows  to  thine  eyes. 

Thou  walkest  with  me  when  I  walk ; 
When  to  my  bed  for  rest  I  go, 
I  find  thee  there, 
And  everywhere ; 
Not  youngest  thought  in  me  doth 
grow. 
No,  not  one  word  I  cast  to  talk 
But,    yet    unuttered,    thou    dost 
know. 

If  forth  I  march,  thou  goest  before ; 
If  back  I  turn,  thou  com'st  behind ; 
So  forth  nor  back 
Thy  guard  I  lack ; 
Nay,  on  me  too  thy  hand  I  find. 
Well  I  thy  wisdom  may  adore. 
But    never   reach    with    earthly 
mind. 

To  shun  thy  notice,  leave  thine  eye, 
O  whither  might  I  take  my  way  ? 
To  starry  sphere  ? 
Thy  throne  is  there : 
To    dead     men's    undelightsome 
stay? 
There  is  thy  walk,  and  there  to  lie 
Unknown,  in  vain  should  I  assay. 

O  sun,  whom  light  nor  flight  can 
match ! 
Suppose  thy  lightful  flightful  wings 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


179 


Thou  lend  to  me, 
And  I  could  flee 
As  far  as  thee  the  evening  brings : 
Even  led  to  west  he  would  me  catch. 
Nor  should  I  lurk  with  western 
things. 

Do  thou  thy  best,  O  secret  night ! 
In  sable  veil  to  cover  me: 
Thy  sable  veil 
Shall  vainly  fail : 
With    day    unmasked    my    night 
shall  be. 
For  night  is  day,  and  darkness  light, 
O  Father  of  all  lights,  to  thee. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


SATAN. 

Below  the  bottom  of  the  great  Abyss, 
There  where  one  centre   reconciles 

all  things. 
The  world's  profound  heart  pants; 

there  placed  is 
Mischief's  old  Master!  close  about 

him  clings 
A  curled  knot  of  embracing  snakes, 

that  kiss 
His    correspondent    cheeks:   these 

loathsome  strings 
Hold  the  perverse  prince  in  eternal 

ties, 
Fast  bound  since  first  he  forfeited 

the  skies. 

Heaven's  golden- wiiigfed  herald  late 

he  saw 
To  a  poor  Galilean  virgin  sent; 
How  long  the  bright  youth  bowed, 

and  with  what  awe 
Immortal  flowers  to  her  fair  hand 

present : 
He    saw  the   old  Hebrew's    womb 

neglect  the  law 
Of  age  and  barrenness ;  and  her  Babe 

prevent 
His  birth  by  his  devotion,  who  be- 
gan 
Betimes  to  be   a  saint   before  a 

man! 

Yet,  on  the  other  side,  fain  would 

he  start 
Above  his  fears,  and  think  it  cannot 

be: 
He  studies  Scripture,  strives  to  sound 

the  heart 


And  feel  the  pulse  of  every  prophecy, 
He  knows,  but  knows  not  how,  or 

by  what  art 
The  heaven-expecting  ages  hope  to 
see 
A  mighty  Babe,  whose  pure,  un- 
spotted birth 
From  a  chaste  virgin  womb  should 
bless  the  earth ! 

But  these  vast  mysteries  his  senses 

smother, 
And  reason, — for  what's    faith  to 

him !  —  devour. 
How  she  that  is  a  maid  should  prove 

a  mother. 
Yet  keep  inviolate  her  virgin  flower; 
How  God's  eternal  Son   should   be 

man's  brother, 
Poseth     his     proudest     intellectual 

power ; 
How  a  pure  spirit  should  incar- 
nate be. 
And  life  itself  wear  death's  frail 

livery. 

That  the  great  angel-blinding  light 

should  shrink 
His  blaze,  to  shine  in  a  poor  shep- 
herd's eye; 
That  the  unmeasured  God  so  low 

should  sink 
As  prisoner  in  a  few  poor  rags  to  lie ; 
That  from  his  mother's   breast  He 

milk  should  drink, 
Who  feeds  with  nectar  Heaven's  fair 

family ; 
That  a  vile  manger  his  low  bed 

should  prove 
Who  in  a  throne  of  stars  thunders 

above. 

That  He  whom  the  sun  serves,  should 

faintly  peep 
Through  clouds  of  infant  flesh :  that 

He  the  old 
Eternal  Word  would  be  a  child,  and 

weep; 
That  He  who  made  the  fire  should 

feel  the  cold ; 
That    Heaven's    high    Majesty   his 

court  should  keep 
In  a  clay-cottage,  by  each  blast  con- 
trolled : 
That  Glory's  self  should  serve  our 

griefs  and  fears : 
And  free  Eternity  submit  to  years. 
Richard  Crashaw. 


180 


PARNASSUS. 


NARAYENA:   SPIRIT   OF  GOD. 

Blue  crystal  vault  and  elemental 
fires 

That  in  the  aerial  fluid  blaze  and 
breathe ! 

Thou  tossing  sea,  whose  snaky- 
branches  wreath 

This  pensile  orb  with  intertwisted 
gyves ; — 

Mountains  whose  lofty  radiant  spires 

Presumptuous  rear  their  summits 
to  the  skies ; 

Smooth  meads  and  lawns  that  glow 
with  vergant  dyes 

Of  dew-bespangled  leaves  and  blos- 
soms bright ! 

Hence !  vanish  from  my  sight : 

Delusive  pictures !  Unsubstantial 
shows ! 

My  soul  absorbed,  one  only  Being 
knows ; 

Of  all  perceptions  one  abundant 
source ; 

Whence  every  object  every  moment 
flows : 

Suns  hence  derive  their  force ; 

Hence  planets  learn  their  course ; 

But  suns  and  fading  worlds  I  view 
no  more : 

God  only  I  perceive;  God  only  I  adore. 
Sib  William  Jones  :  Translation. 


PENITENCE. 

Great  God! 

Greater  than  greatest!  better  than 
the  best! 

Kinder  than  kindest!  with  soft  pity's 
eye 

Look  down — 

On    a   poor   breathing   particle    in 
dust! 

Or,    lower,  —  an    immortal    in    his 
crimes. 

His  crimes  forgive,  forgive  his  vir- 
tues too ! 

Those  smaller  faults,  half  converts 
to  the  right. 

Young. 

AN  ODE. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled    heavens,   a   shining 
frame, 


Their  great  Original  proclaim. 
The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display; 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail. 
The  moon  takes  up   the  wondrous 

tale, 
And  nightly,  to  the  listening  earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her 

burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn. 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to 

pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round    this    dark,   terrestrial 

ball? 
What    though    nor   real   voice   nor 

sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine ! " 
Addison. 


TWO    WENT    UP    INTO    THE 
TEMPLE  TO  PRAY. 

Two  went  to  pray  ?    Oh !  rather  say. 
One  went  to  brag,  the  other  to  pray. 

One  stands  up  close,  and  treads  on 

high, 
Where  the  other  dares  not  lend  his 

eye. 

One  nearer  to  God's  altar  trod; 
The  other  to  the  altar's  God. 

Richard  Crashaw. 


A  HYMN  TO  CHRIST, 

AT  THE  author's  LAST  GOING  INTO 
GERMANY. 

In  what  torn  ship  soever  I  embark, 
That  ship  shall  be  my  emblem  of 

thy  ark ; 
What  sea  soever  swallow  me,   that 

flood 
Shall  be  to  me  an  emblem  of  thy 

blood. 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


181 


Though  thou  with  clouds  of  anger 
do  disguise 

Thy  face,  yet  through  that  mask  I 
know  those  eyes, 

Which,  though  they  turn  away  some- 
times, — 

They  never  will  despise. 

I  sacrifice  this  island  unto  thee, 
And  all  whom  I  love  here,  and  who 

love  me : 
When  I  have  put  this  flood  'twixt 

them  and  me. 
Put  thou  thy  blood  betwixt  my  sins 

and  thee. 
As  the  tree's  sap  doth  seek  the  root 

below 
In  winter,  in  my  winter  now  I  go 
Where  none  but  thee,  the  eternal  root 
Of  true  love,  I  may  know. 

Nor  thou,  nor  thy  religion,  dost  con- 
trol 

The  amorousness  of  an  harmonious 
soul; 

But  thou  wouldst  have  that  love 
thyself :  as  thou 

Art  jealous,  Lord,  so  I  am  jealous 
now. 

Thou  lov'st  not  till  from  loving 
more  thou  free 

My  soul :  who  ever  gives,  takes  lib- 
erty; 

Oh !  if  thou  car'st  not  whom  I  love, 

Alas,  thou  lov'st  not  me ! 

Seal,  then,  this  bill  of  my  divorce  to 

all 
On  whom  those  fainter  beams    of 

love  did  fall ; 
Marry  those  loves,  which  in  youth 

scattered  be 
On  face,  wit,  hopes  (false  mistresses), 

to  thee. 
Churches  are  best  for  prayer  that 

have  least  light ; 
To  see  God  only,  I  go  out  of  sight ; 
And  to  'scape  stormy  days,  I  choose 
An  everlasting  night. 

Donne. 


THE  ELIXIR. 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, 
In  all  things  thee  to  see ; 

And,  what  I  do  in  any  thing, 
To  do  it  as  for  thee : 


Not  rudely,  as  a  beast. 

To  run  into  an  action ; 
But  still  to  make  thee  prepossessed, 

And  give  it  his  perfection, 

A  man  that  looks  on  glass 

On  it  may  stay  his  eye ; 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass, 

And  then  the  heaven  espy. 

All  may  of  thee  partake : 

Nothing  can  be  so  mean. 
Which  with  this  tincture,  for  thy 
sake, 

Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

A  servant,  with  this  clause, 

Makes  dnidgery  divine : 
Who  sweeps  a  room,  as  for  thy  laws, 

Makes  that,  and  the  action,  fine. 

This  is  the  famous  stone 

That  turneth  all  to  gold ; 
For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and 
own 
Cannot  for  less  be  told. 

Herbeet. 


SING  UNTO  THE  LORD. 

PSALM  XCVI. 

Sing,  and  let  your  song  be  new, 
Unto  him  that  never  endeth  1 

Sing  all  earth,  and  all  in  you. 

Sing  to  God,  and  bless  his  name. 
Of  the  help,  the  health  he  sendeth, 

Day  by  day  new  ditties  frame. 

Make  each  country  know  his  worth : 
Of  his  acts  the  wondered  story 

Paint  unto  each  people  forth. 

For  Jehovah  great  alone. 
All  the  gods  for  awe  and  glory, 

Far  above  doth  hold  his  throne. 

For  but  idols,  what  are  they 
Wliom  besides  mad  earth  adoreth  ? 

He  the  skies  in  frame  did  lay ; 

Grace  and  honor  are  his  guides ; 
Majesty  his  temple  storeth ; 

Might  in  guard  about  him  bides. 

Kindreds  come !    Jehovah  give,  — 

O  give  Jehovah  all  together. 
Force  and  fame  whereso  you  live. 
Give  his  name  the  glory  fit ; 


182 


PARNASSUS. 


Take     your    offerings,    get    you 
thither, 
Where  he  doth  enshrinM  sit. 

Go,  adore  him  in  the  place 

Where  his  pomp  is  most  displayed. 
Earth,  O  go  with  quaking  pace, 
Go  proclaim  Jehovah  king  : 

Stayless  world  shall  now  be  stayed ; 
Righteous  doom  his  rule  shall  bring. 

Starry  roof  and  earthy  floor. 
Sea  and  all  thy  wideness  yieldeth ; 

Now  rejoice,  and  leap,  and  roar. 

Leafy  infants  of  the  wood. 
Fields,  and  all  that  on  you  feed- 
eth, 

Dance,  O  dance,  at  such  a  good ! 

For  Jehovah  cometh,  lo ! 

Lo,  to  reign  Jehovah  cometh ! 
Under  whom  you  all  shall  go. 
He  the  world  shall  rightly  guide ; 

Truly,  as  a  king  becometh, 
For  the  people's  weal  provide. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


PSALM  XYIII. 

The  Lord  descended  from  above, 
And  bowed  the  heavens  high ; 

And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky. 

On  Cherubim  and  Seraphim 

Full  royally  he  rode ; 
And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 

Came  flying  all  abroad. 

He  sat  serene  upon  the  floods, 

Their  fury  to  restrain ; 
And  he  as  sovereign  Lord  and  King 

Forevermore  shall  reign. 

Sternhold. 


DEPENDENCE. 

To  keep  the  lamp  alive. 
With  oil  we  fill  the  bowl : 

'Tis  water  makes  the  willow  thrive, 
And  grace  that  feeds  the  soul. 

The  Lord's  unsparing  hand 
Supplies  the  living  stream : 

It  is  not  at  our  own  command, 
But  still  derived  from  him. 


Man's  wisdom  is  to  seek 
His  strength  in  God  alone ; 

And  even  an  angel  would  be  weak, 
Who  trusted  in  his  own. 

Retreat  beneath  his  wings, 
And  in  his  grace  confide : 

This  more  exalts  the  King  of  kings 
Than  all  your  works  beside. 

In  Jesus  is  our  store ; 

Grace  issues  from  his  throne : 
Whoever  says,  "  I  want  no  more," 

Confesses  he  has  none. 

COWPEE. 


PROVIDENCE. 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 

His  wonders  to  perform : 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill. 
He  treasures  up  his  bright  designs, 

And  works  his  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take : 
The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 

Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 
In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 
But  trust  him  for  his  grace : 

Behind  a  frowning  providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast. 

Unfolding  every  hour : 
The  bud  may  liave  a  bitter  taste ; 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err. 
And  scan  his  works  in  vain: 

God  is  his  own  interpreter ; 
And  he  will  make  it  plain. 

COWPER. 


PROVIDENCE. 

O    SACRED    Providence,   who  from 

end  to  end 
Strongly  and  sweetly  movest!  shall 

I  write, 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —MOKAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


183 


And  not  of  thee,  througli  whom  my 

fingers  bend 
To  hold  my  quill  ?  shall  they  not  do 

thee  right  ? 

Wherefore,    most    sacred    Spirit,    I 

here  present, 
For  me  and  all  my  fellows,  praise  to 

thee: 
And  just  it  is  that  I  should  pay  the 

rent. 
Because  the  benefit  accrues  to  me. 

Tempests  are  calm    to    thee:    they 

know  thy  hand. 
And    hold    it  fast,   as    children  do 

their  fathers. 
Which   cry  and  follow.     Thou  hast 

made  poore  sand 
Check  the  proud  sea,  even  when  it 

swells  and  gathers. 

How  finely  dost  thou  times  and  sea- 
sons spin. 

And  make  a  twist  checkered  with 
night  and  day ! 

Which  as  it  lengthens,  windes  and 
windes  us  in. 

As  bowls  go  on,  but  turning  all  the 
way. 

Bees  work  for  man;   and  yet  they 

never  bruise 
Their  master's  flower,  but  leave  it, 

having  done, 
As  fair  as  ever,  and  as  fit  to  use : 
So  both  the  flower  doth  stay,  and 

honey  run. 

Who  hath  the  virtue  to  expresse  the 
rare 

And  curious  virtues  both  of  herbs 
and  stones  ? 

Is  there  an  herb  for  that?  O  that 
thy  care 

Would  show  a  root  that  gives  ex- 
pressions ! 

The  sea  which  seems  to  stop  the 

traveller. 
Is    by  a  ship  the  speedier  passage 

made: 
The  windes,  who  think  they  rule  the 

mariner. 
Are  ruled  by  him,  and  taught  to 

serve  his  trade. 


Rain,  do  not  hurt  my  flowers,  but 

gently  spend 
Your  honey  drops ;  presse  not  to  smell 

them  here : 
When  they  are  ripe,  their  odor  will 

ascend, 
And    at    your    lodging    with    their 

thanks  appeare. 

Sometimes  thou  dost  divide  thy  gifts 

to  man; 
Sometimes  unite.     The  Indian  nut 

alone 
Is    clothing,    meat,    and    trencher, 

drink  and  can. 
Boat,  cable,  sail  and  needle,  all  in 

one. 

Each  thing  that  is,  although  in  use 

and  name 
It  go  for  one,  hath  many  ways  in 

store 
To  honor  thee ;   and  so  each  hymn 

thy  fame 
Extolleth  many  ways,  yet  this  one 

more. 

Herbert. 


PRAISE  TO  GOD. 

Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise. 
For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days : 
Bounteous  source  of  every  joy. 
Let  thy  praise  our  tongues  employ ; 

For  the  blessings  of  the  field, 
For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield, 
For  the  vine's  exalted  juice, 
For  the  generous  olive's  use; 

Flocks  that  whiten  all  the  plain, 
Yellow  sheaves  of  ripened  grain ; 
Clouds    that    drop    their   fattening 

dews, 
Suns  that  temperate  warmth  diffuse ; 

All    that    Spring    with    bounteous 

hand 
Scatters  o'er  the  smiling  land: 
All  that  liberal  Autumn  pours 
From  her  rich  o'erflowing  stores : 

These  to  thee,  ray  God,  we  owe ; 
Source    whence    all    our    blessings 

flow; 
And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 


184 


PAENASSUS. 


Yet  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 
From  its  stem  the  ripening  ear; 
Should  tlie  fig-tree's  blasted  slioot 
Drop  her  green  untimely  fruit; 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more, 
Nor  the  olive  yield  her  store ; 
Though  the  sickening  flocks  should 

fall, 
And  the  herds  desert  the  stall ; 

Should  thine  altered  hand  restrain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain, 
Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy, 
And  the  rising  year  destroy : 

Yet  to  thee  my  soul  should  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise ; 
And,  when  every  blessing's  flown, 
Love  thee  —  for  thyself  alone. 

Babbauld. 


afflictio:n'. 

When  first  Thou  didst  entice  to  Thee 
my  heart, 
I  thought  the  service  brave ; 
So  many  joys  I  writ  down  for  my 
part ! 
Besides  what  I  might  have 
Out  of  my  stock  of  natural  delights. 
Augmented  with  Thy  gracious  bene- 
fits. 

I  looked  on  Thy  furniture  so  fine. 

And  made  it  fine  to  me. 
Thy  glorious  household  stuff  did  me 
intwine, 
And  'tice  me  unto  Thee. 
Such  stars   I  counted   mine:    both 

heaven  and  earth 
Paid  me  my  wages  in  a  world  of  mirth. 

What  pleasure  could  I  want,  whose 

King  I  served  ? 
Where  joys  my  fellows  were  ? 
Thus  argued  into  hopes,  my  thoughts 

reserved 
No  place  for  grief  or  fear: 
Therefore  my  sudden  soul  caught  at 

the  place. 
And  made  her  youth  and  fierceness 

seek  Thy  face. 

At  first  Thou  gav'st  me  milk  and 
sweetnesses ; 
I  had  my  wish  and  way ; 


My  days  were  strewed  with  flowers 

and  happiness : 
There  was  no  month  but  May : 
But  with  my  years  sorrow  did  twisi 

and  grow. 
And  made  a  party  unawares  for  woe, 

Whereas  my  birth  and  spirit  rathei 
took 
The  way  that  takes  the  town ; 
Thou  didst  betray  me  to  a  lingering 
book, 
And  wrap  me  in  a  gown. 
I  was  entangled  in  a  world  of  strife, 
Before  I  had  the  power  to  change  mj 
life. 

Yet  lest  perchance  I  should  too  hap- 
py be 
In  my  unhappiness, 

Turning   my  purge    to  food,  Tliou 
throwest  me 
Into  more  sicknesses. 

Thus  does  Thy  power  cross-bias  me, 
not  making 

Thine  own  gift  good,  yet  me  from 
my  ways  taking. 

Now  I  am  here ;  what  Thou  wilt  dc 
with  me. 
None  of  my  books  will  show : 
I  read,  and  sigh,  and  wish  I  were  a  tree : 

For  sure  then  I  should  grow 
To  fruit,  or  shade ;  at  least  some  bird 

would  trust 
Her  household  to  me,  and  I  should 
be  just. 

Yet  though  Thou  troublest  me,   I 
must  be  meek ; 
In  weakness  must  be  stout. 
Well,  I  Avill  change  the  service,  and 
go  seek 
Some  other  master  out. 
Ah,  my  dear  God !  though  I  am  clean 

forgot. 
Let  me  not  love  Thee,  if  I  love  Thee 
not. 

Herbert. 


GRATEFULNESS. 

Thou  that  hast  given  so  much  to  me, 
Give  one  thing  more,  —  a   grateful 

heart. 
See  how  Thy  beggar  works  on  Thee 
By  art; 


CONTEMPLATI VE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


185 


He  makes  Thy  gifts  occasion  more, 
And  says  —  If  he  in  this  be  crost, 
All  Thou  hast  given  him  heretofore 
Is  lost. 

But  Thou  didst  reckon,  when  at  first 
Thy  word  our  hearts  and  hands  did 

crave, 
Wliat  it  would  come  to  at  the  worst 
To  save. 

Perpetual  knockings  at  Thy  door. 
Tears     sullying     Thy     transparent 

rooms, 
Gift  upon  gift,  much  would  have 

more. 

And  comes. 

This  notwithstanding,  thou  went'st 

on. 
And  didst  allow  us  all  our  noise ; 
Nay,  Thou  hast  made  a  sigh  and 

groan, 

Thy  joys. 

Not  that  Thou  hast  not  still  above 
Much  better  tunes  than  groans  can 

make. 
But  that  these  coimtry  airs  Thy  love 
Did  take. 

Wherefore  I  cry,  and  ciy  again ; 
And  in  no  quiet  canst  Thou  be. 
Till  I  a  thankful  heart  obtain 

Of  Thee. 

Not  thankful  when  it  pleaseth  me,  — 
As  if  Thy  blessings  had  spare  days,  — 
But  such  a  heart,  whose  pulse  may 
be 

Thy  praise. 
Hebbert. 


MATINS. 

When  with  the  virgin  morning 
thou  dost  rise. 

Crossing  thyself,  come  thus  to  sacri- 
fice; 

First  wash  thy  heart  in.  innocence, 
then  bring 

Pure  hands,  pure  habits,  pure,  pure 
every  thing. 

Next  to  the  altar  humbly  kneel,  and 
thence 

Give  up  thy  soul  in  clouds  of  frank- 
incense. 


Thy  golden  censers  filled  with  odors 

sweet 
Shall  make   thy  actions  with  their 

ends  to  meet. 

Hebeick. 


BEFORE  SLEEP. 

The  night   is  come    like  to  the 

day,  — 
Depart  not  thou,  great  God,  away. 
Let  not  my  sins,  black  as  the  night, 
Eclipse  the  lustre  of  thy  light. 
Keep  still  in  my  horizon ;  for  to  me 
The  sun  makes  not    the  day,   but 

thee. 
Thou,  whose  nature  cannot  sleep. 
On  my  temples  sentry  keep ; 
Guard    me  'gainst    those    watchful 

foes 
Whose  eyes   are  open  while    mine 

close. 
Let  no  dreams  my  head  infest 
But  such  as  Jacob's  temples  blest. 
Wliile  I  do  rest,  my  soul  advance, 
Make  my  sleep  a  holy  trance, 
That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 
Awake  into  some  holy  thought. 
And  with  as  active  vigor  run 
My  course,  as  doth  tlie  nimble  sun, 
Sleep  is  a  death ;  O  make  me  try 
By  sleeping,  what  it  is  to  die : 
And  as  gently  lay  my  head 
On  my  grave,  as  now  my  bed. 
Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 
Awake  again  at  least  with  thee ; 
And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie 
Secure,  or  to  awake  or  die. 
These  are  my  drowsy  days ;  in  vain 
I  do  now  wake  to  sleep  again ;  — 
O  come  that  hour,  when  I  shall  never 
Sleep  again,  but  wake  forever. 

Sib  Thomas  Bbowne. 


HYMN. 

Lord,  when  I  quit  this  earthly  stage, 
Wliere  shall  I  fly  but  to  thy  breast  ? 
For  I  have  sought  no  other  lionie. 
For  I  have  learned  no  other  rest. 

I  cannot  live  contented  here. 
Without  some  glimpses  of  thy  face ; 
And    heaven  without  thy  presence 

there 
Would  be  a  dark  and  tiresome  place. 


186 


PARNASSUS. 


When  earthly  cares  engross  the  day, 
And  hold  my  thoughts  aside  from 

thee, 
The  shining  hours  of  cheerful  light 
Are  long  and  tedious  years  to  me. 

And  if  no  evening  visit's  paid 
Between  my  Saviour  and  my  soul, 
How  dull   the  night!   how  sad  the 

shade ! 
How  mournfully  the  minutes  roll ! 

My  God !  and  can  a  humble  child 
That  loves  thee  with  a  flame  so  high, 
Be  ever  from  thy  face  exiled. 
Without  the  pity  of  thy  eye  ? 

Impossible !  for  thine  own  hands 
Have  tied  ray  heart  so  fast  to  thee ; 
And  in  tliy  book  the  promise  stands 
That  where  thou    art    thy  friends 
must  be. 

Watts. 


HYMN  TO    GOD,   MY   GOD,   IN 
MY  SICKNESS. 

Since  I  am  coming  to  that  holy  room. 
Where  with  the  choir  of  saints  for- 
evermore 
I  shall  be  made  thy  music,  as  I  come 
I  tune  the  instrument  here  at  the 
door, 
And  what  I  must  do  then,  think  here 
before. 

We  think  that  Paradise  and  Calvary, 
Christ's   cross   and  Adam's  tree, 
stood  in  one  place: 
Look,  Lord,  and  find  both  Adams 
met  in  me ; 
As  the  first  Adam's    sweat    sur- 
rounds my  face, 
May  the  last  Adam's  blood  my  soul 
embrace. 

So,  in  his  purple  wrapped,  receive 
me,  Lord ; 
By  these  his  thorns  give  me  his 
other  crown ; 
And  as  to  others'  souls  I  preached 
thy  word. 
Be   this  my  text,  my  sermon  to 
mine  own : 
Therefore,  that  he  may  raise,  the 
Lord  throws  down. 

Donne. 


LITANY  TO  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT. 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

Wlien  I  lie  within  my  bed. 
Sick  at  heart,  and  sick  in  head. 
And  with  doubts  discomforted. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When   the    house    doth    sigh    and 

weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees 
No  one  hope,  but  of  his  fees, 
And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  his  potion  and  his  pill. 
Has  or  none  or  little  skill. 
Meet  for  nothing,  but  to  kill,  — 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
And  the  Furies,  in  a  shoal. 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soul. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue. 
And  the  comforters  are  few. 
And  that  number  more  than  true. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed, 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said. 
Because  my  speech  is  now  decayed. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

Wlien,  God  knows,  I'm  tost  about 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt, 
Yet  before  the  glass  be  out. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

Wlien  the  Tempter  me  pursu'th 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 
And  half  damns  me  with  untruth. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

Wlien  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears,  and  fright  mine 

eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  RELIGIOUS. 


When  the  judgment  is  revealed, 
And  that  opened  which  was  sealed ; 
When  to  Thee  I  have  appealed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

Herrick. 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 


It  was  the  winter  wild. 
While  the  heaven-born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  man- 
ger lies ; 
Nature  in  awe  to  him 
Had  doff'd  her  gaudy  trim, 
With  her  great  Master  so  to  sym- 
pathize : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty 
paramour. 

n. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 

She  wooes  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  inno- 
cent snow, 

And  on  her  naked  shame. 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame. 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white 
to  throw ; 

Confounded  that  her  Maker's  eyes 

Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul 
deformities. 

m. 

But  He,  her  fears  to  cease. 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace ; 
She,  crowned  with    olive   green, 

came  softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere 
His  ready  harbinger, 
With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds 

dividing; 
And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through 

sea  and  land. 

IV. 

Ko  war,  or  battle's  sound, 
Was  heard  the  world  around : 
The  idle   spear  and    shield  were 
high  uphung. 
The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood, 


187 


The  trumpet    spake    not   to    the 

armed  throng. 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign 

Lord  was  by. 


But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth 

began : 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kist, 
Whispering  new  joys  to  the    mild 

ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on 

the  charmed  wave. 

VI. 

The  stars  with  deep  amaze 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 
Bending  one  way  their  precious 

influence, 
And  will  not  take  their  flight, 
For  all  the  morning  light. 
Or  Lucifer,  that  often  warned  them 

thence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs   did 

glow. 
Until  their  Lord   himself   bespake, 

and  bade  them  go. 

vn. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room. 
The    sun    himself    withheld   his 
wonted  speed. 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  flame 
The    new  enlightened   world   no 
more  should  need ; 
He  saw  a  greater  sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne  or  burning 
axle  tree  could  bear. 

vni. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  e'er  the  point  of  dawn, 
Sat  simply  chatting  in   a  rustic 
row; 
Full  little  thought  they  then 
That  the  mighty  Pan 
Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them 
below ; 


188 


PARNASSUS. 


Perhaps  their  loves,   or  else    their 

sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts 

so  busy  keep. 


When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet. 
As  never  was   by  mortal    finger 
strook, 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rap- 
ture took : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose. 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs 
each  heavenly  close. 


Nature,  that  heard  such  sound. 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 
Of  Cynthia's  seat,  the  airy  region 

thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done, 
And   that  her  reign  had  here  its 

last  fulfilling; 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in 

happier  union. 

XI. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light, 
That  with  long  beams  the  shame- 
faced night  arrayed ; 
The  helmed  Cherubim, 
And  sworded  Seraphim, 
Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with 
wings  displayed, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire. 
With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heaven's 
new-born  Heir. 

xn. 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 

Before  was  never  made. 
But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morn- 
ing sung, 

While  the  Creator  great 

P^is  constellations  set, 
And  the  well-balanced  world  on 
hinges  hung, 

And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 

And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their 
oozy  channel  keep. 


xm. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres, 
Once  bless  our  human  ears, 
If   ye  have  power  to  touch  our 

senses  so ; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time. 
And  let  the  base  of  heaven's  deep 

organ  blow ; 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 
Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic 

symphony. 

XIV. 

For  if  such  holy  song 
In  wrap  our  fancy  long, 
Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the 
age  of  gold ; 
And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die. 
And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from 
earthly  mould ; 
And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away. 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to 
the  peering  day. 

XV. 

Tea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men. 
Orbed  in  a    rainbow;    and,    like 

glories  wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between. 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 
With    radiant    feet    the    tissued 

clouds  down  steering : 
And  heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high 

palace  hall. 

XVI. 

But  wisest  Fate  says,  no, 
This  must  not  yet  be  so. 

The  babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  in- 
fancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss ; 

So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify ; 
Yet  first  to  those  ychained  in  sleep. 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must 
thunder  through  the  deep, 

XVII. 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang. 
While  the  red  fire,  and  smoulder- 
ing clouds  outbrake : 


CONTEMPLATIVE.  —  MORAL.  —  EELIGIOUS. 


189 


The  aged  earth  aghast, 

With  terror  of  that  blast, 
Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  cen- 
tre shake ; 

When  at  the  world's  last  session. 

The  dreadful   Judge  in  middle  air 
shall  spread  his  throne. 

xvin. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins;    for,  from  this 
happy  day. 
The  old  Dragon  under  ground 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped 
sway, 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges    the    scaly   horror   of    his 
folded  tail. 

XIX. 

The  oracles  are  dumb ; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in 

words  deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine. 
With'  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of 

Delphos  leaving. 
No  nightly  trance  or  breathed  spell 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the 

prophetic  cell. 

XX. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud 
lament ; 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplar  pale. 
The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing 
sent; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn. 
The  Nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of 
tangled  thickets  mourn. 

xxr. 

In  consecrated  earth. 

And  on  the  holy  hearth, 

.    The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with 
midnight  plaint; 

In  urns  and  altars  round, 

A  drear  and  dying  sound 
Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  ser- 
vice quaint ; 


And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat. 
While  each  peculiar  Power  foregoes 
his  wonted  seat. 

xxn. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice-battered  god  of 

Palestine ; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both. 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy 

shine ; 
The    Lybic   Hammon    shrinks   his 

horn; 
In   vain   the    Tyrian   maids    their 

wounded  Thammuz  mourn. 

xxiii. 

And  sullen  Moloch  fled. 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest 

hue; 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king. 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace 

blue: 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis, 

haste. 

XXIV. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 
In  Memphian  grove  or  green. 
Trampling  the  unshowered  grass 

with  lowings  loud: 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest ; 
Nought  but  profoundest  hell  can 

be  his  shroud ; 
In  vain  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark 
The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his 

worshipped  ark. 


He  feels  from  Judah's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand; 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his 

dusky  eyn ; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside, 
Longer  dare  abide ; 
Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky 

twine : 
Our  babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control 

the  damned  crew. 


190 


PARNASSUS. 


XX  VT. 

So  when  the  sun  in  bed, 
Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 
Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient 

wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 
Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his 

several  grave : 
And  the  yellow-skirted  Fayes 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,   leaving 

their  moon-loved  maze. 

XXVII. 

But  see  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest ; 
Time  is  our  tedious   song  should 
here  have  ending ; 
Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid 
lamp  attending ; 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order 
serviceable. 

Milton. 


THE  SHEPHERDS. 

O  THAN  the  fairest  day,  thrice  fairer 

night ! 
Night  to  best  days,  in  which  a  sun 

doth  rise 
Of    which    that  Golden  eye  which 

clears  the  skies 
Is  but  a  sparkling  ray,  a  shadow  light ! 
And  blessed  ye,  in  silly  pastors'  sight, 
Wild  creiitures  in  whose  warm  crib 

now  lies 
That    heaven-sent    youngling,   holy 

maid-born  wight, 
'Midst,    end,     beginning     of     our 

prophecies ! 
Blest  cottage  that  hath  flowers  in 

winter  spread ! 
Though    withered,  —  blessed    grass, 

that  hath  the  grace 
To  deck  and  be  a  carpet  to  that  place ! 
Thus  sang  unto  the  sounds  of  oaten 

reed, 
Before  the  Babe,  the  shepherds  bowed 

on  knees ; 
And    springs    ran    nectar,    honey 

dropped  from  trees. 

Drummond. 


THE  ANGELS. 

Run,  shepherds,  run  where  Bethle- 
hem blest  appears. 
We  bring  the  best  of  news ;  be  not 

dismayed : 
A  Saviour  there  is  born  more  old 

than  years. 
Amidst  heaven's  rolling  height  this 

earth  who  stayed. 
In  a  poor  cottage  inned,   a  virgin 

maid 
A  weakling  did  him  bear,  who  all 

upbears ; 
There    is    he    poorly   swaddled,   in 

manger  laid. 
To  whom  too  narrow  swaddlings  are 

our  spheres : 
Run,  shepherds,  run,  and  solemnize 

his  birth. 
This  is  that  night — no,  day,  grown 

great  with  bliss, 
In  which  the  power  of  Satan  broken 

is: 
In  heaven  be  glory,  peace  unto  the 

earth ! 
Thus  singing,  through  the  air  the 

angels  swarm. 
And    cope    of    stars    re-echoed  the 

same. 

Deummond. 


THE  STAR  SONG. 

Tell  us,  thou  clear  and  heavenly 

tongue. 
Where  is  the  Babe  but  lately  sprung? 
Lies  he  the  lily-banks  among  ? 

Or  say,  if  this  new  Birth  of  ours 
Sleeps,    laid    within    some    ark    of 

flowers, 
Spangled  with  dew-light ;  thou  canst 

clear 
All  doubts,  and  manifest  the  where. 

Declare  to   us,  bright   star,  if   we 

shall  seek 
Him    in    the     morning's    blushing 

cheek. 
Or  search  the  beds  of  spices  through, 
To  find  him  out? 

Star.  —  No,  this  ye  need  not  do ; 
But  only  come  and  see  Him  rest, 
A  princely  babe,  in's  mother's  breast. 
Hebbick. 


CONTEMPI^TIVE.  -MORAL.  —RELIGIOUS. 


191 


NEW  PRINCE,  NEW  POMP. 

Behold  a  silly,  tender  Babe, 

In  freezing  winter  night, 
In  homely  manger  trembling  lies ; 

Alas !  a  piteous  sight. 

The  inns  are  full ;  no  man  will  jrield 

This  httle  Pilgrim  bed ; 
But  forced  he  is  with  silly  beasts 

In  crib  to  shroud  his  head. 

Despise  him  not  for  lying  there ; 

First  what  he  is  inquire : 
An  Orient  pearl  is  often  found 

In  depth  of  dirty  mire. 

Weigh  not  his  crib,  his  wooden  dish, 
Nor  beasts  that  by  him  feed ; 

Weigh  not  his  mother's  poor  attire. 
Nor  Joseph's  simple  weed. 

This  stable  is  a  Prince's  court. 
The  crib  his  chair  of  state ; 

The  beasts  are  parcel  of  his  pomp. 
The  wooden  dish  his  plate. 

The  persons  in  t^t  poor  attire 

His  royal  liveries  wear; 
The  Prince  himself    is  come  from 
heaven : 

This  pomp  is  praised  there. 

With    joy    approach,    O    Christian 

wight ! 

Do  homage  to  thy  King ; 

And  highly  praise  this  humble  pomp, 

Which  he  from  heaven  doth  bring. 

Southwell. 


THE  BURNING  BABE. 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night 
Stood  shivering  in  the  snow, 
Surprised  I  was  by  sudden  heat 
Which  made  my  heart  to  glow ; 

And  lifting  up  a  fearful  eye 
To  view  what  fire  was  near, 
A  pretty  babe  all  burning  bright, 
Did  in  the  air  appear ; 

Who,  scorched  with  excessive  heat, 

Such  floods  of  tears  did  shed. 

As  though  his  floods  should  quench 

his  flames ; 
Which  with  his  tears  were  bred : 


Alas,  quoth  he,  but  newly  bom, 

In  fiery  heats  I  fry. 

Yet  none  approach  to  warm  their 

hearts 
Or  feel  the  fire,  but  I. 

My  faultless  breast  the  furnace  Is ; 
The  fuel  wounding  thorns ; 
Love  is  the  fire,  and  sighs  the  smoke, 
The  ashes  shames  and  scorns. 

The  fuel  justice  layeth  on, 
And  mercy  blows  the  coals ; 
The  metal  in  this  furnace  wrought 
Are  men's  defiled  souls  — 

For  which,  as  now  on  fire  I  am, 
To  work  them  to  their  good, 
So  will  I  melt  into  a  bath. 
To  wash  them  in  my  blood. 

With  this  he  vanished  out  of  sight, 
And  swiftlv  shrunk  away. 
And  straight  I  called  unto  mind 
That  it  was  Christmas  Day. 

Southwell. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

The  minstrels  played  their  Christ- 
mas tune 
To-night  beneath  my  cottage-eaves ; 
While,  smitten  by  a  lofty  moon. 
The  encircling  laurels,   thick  with 

leaves. 
Gave  back  a  rich  and  dazzling  sheen. 
That    overpowered     their    natural 
green. 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 
Had  sunk  to  rest  with  folded  wings : 
Keen  was  the  air,  but  could    not 

freeze, 
Nor  check,  the  music  of  the  strings ; 
So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 
That  scraped  the  chords  with  stren- 
uous hand ! 

And  who  but  listened?  —  till  was 

paid 
Respect  to  every  inmate's  claim: 
The    greeting     given,     the     music 

played. 
In  honor  of  each  household  name. 
Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call, 
And  *'  Merry  Christmas  "  wished  to 

all! 


192 


PARNASSUS. 


How  touching,  when,  at  midnight, 

sweep 
Snow-muffled  winds,  and  all  is  dark, 
To  hear,  and  sink  again  to  sleep ! 
Or,  at  an  earlier  call,  to  mark, 
By  blazing  fire,  the  still  suspense 
Of  seLf-complacent  innocence ; 

The  mutual  nod,  —  the  grave  dis- 
guise 
Of  hearts  with  gladness  brimming 

o'er; 
And  some  unbidden  tears  that  rise 
For  names  once  heard,  and  heard  no 

more; 
Tears  brightened  by  the  serenade 
For  infant  in  the  cradle  laid. 

Hail,  ancient  Manners !  sure  defence, 
Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome 

laws; 
Remnants    of   love    whose    modest 

sense 
Thus  into  narrow  room  withdraws ; 
Hail,  Usages  of  pristine  mould, 
And  ye  that  guard  them.  Mountains 

old! 

WOBDSWOBTH. 


CHRISTMAS. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night  — 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new  — 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow ; 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  for  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
•  ]iing  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 


Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The    faithless    coldness    of    the 

times : 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful 
rhymes, 
But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and 
blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite : 
Ring   in  the  love   of   truth   and 
right. 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease. 
Ring  out   the   narrowing  lust  of 

gold; 
Ring  out  the   thousand  wars  of 
old. 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ring    out    the    darkness    of    the 
land,  — 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Tennyson. 


EASTER. 

I  GOT  me  flowers  to  strew  Thy  way ; 
I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree ; 
But  thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 
And    brought' St  Thy  sweets  along 
with  Thee. 


The  sun  arising  in  the  east,  — 
Though  he  give  light,  and  the  east 

perfume ; 
If  they  should  offer  to  contest 
With  Thy  arising,  they  presume. 

Can  there  be  any  day  but  this. 

Though  many  suns  to  shine  en- 
deavor ? 

We  count  three  hundred, — but  we 
miss: 

There  is  but  one,  and  that  one  ever. 
Heebebt. 


HEROIC. 

PATRIOTIC.  —  HISTOEIC.  —  POLITICAL. 


•* Pallas.— See  yonder  souls  set  far  within  the  shade, 

Who  in  Elysian  bowers  the  blessM  seats  do  keep, 
That  for  their  living  good  now  semi-gods  are  made, 

And  went  away  from  earth,  as  if  but  tamed  with  sleep. 
These  we  must  join  to  wake ;  for  these  are  of  the  strain 
That  Justice  dare  defend,  and  will  the  Age  sustain." 

Ben  Jonson  :  Golden  Age  Restored. 


HEEOIO, 


ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN 
PIEMONT. 

Avenge,  O    Lord,  thy  slaughtered 

saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  moun- 
tains cold ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so 

pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped 

stocks  and  stones, 
Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their 

groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their 

ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the   bloody  Piemontese 

that  rolled 
Mother    with    infant    down    the 

rocks.     Their  moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and 

they 
To  Heaven.   Their  martyred  blood 

and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where 

still  doth  sway 
The  triple  tyrant;  that  from  these 

may  grow 
A     hundred-fold,    who,     having 

learned  thy  way. 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 
Milton. 


HEROISM. 

At  the  approach 
Of   extreme  peril,  when  a   hollow 

image 
Is  found    a  hollow  image  and  no 

more. 


Then  falls  the  power  into  the  mighty 

hands 
Of  Nature,  of  the  spirit  giant-born, 
Who  listens  only  to  himself,  knows 

nothing 
Of  stipulations,  duties,  reverences. 
And,  like  the  emancipated  force  of 

fire, 
Unmastered  scorches,  ere  it  reaches 

them, 
Their  fine-spun  webs. 
Coleridge's  Translation  of  "  Wal- 

lenstein." 


CONSTANCY. 

Who  is  the  honest  man  ? 
He  that  doth  still  and  strongly  good 

pursue ; 
To  God,  his  neighbor,  and  himself, 
most  true. 
Whom  neither  force  nor  fawning 
can 
Unpin,  or  wrench   from  giving  all 
their  due. 

Whose  honesty  is  not 
So  loose  or  easy,  that  a  ruffling  wind 
Can  blow  away,  or  glittering  look  it 
blind. 
Who  rides  his  sure  and  even  trot. 
While  the  world  now  rides  by,  now 
lags  behind. 

Who,  when  great  trials  come. 
Nor    seeks,   nor   shuns    them,    but 

doth  calmly  stay. 
Till  he  the  thing  and  the  example 
weigh. 

195 


196 


PARNASSUS. 


All  being  brought  into  a  sum, 
Wbat  place  or  person  calls  for,  he 
doth  pay. 

Whom  none  can  work  or  woo. 
To   use    in   any  thing    a    trick,    or 

sleight ; 
For  above  all  things  he  abhors  de- 
ceit. 
His  words  and  works,  and  fashion 
too, 
All  of  a  piece ;  and  all  are  clear  and 
straight. 

Who  never  melts  or  thaws 
At  close  temptations.      When    the 

day  is  done. 
His  goodness  sets  not,  but  in  dark 
can  run. 
The  sun  to  others  writeth  law,s. 
And  is  their  virtue :  virtue  is  his  sun. 

Who,  when  he  is  to  treat 
With  sick  folks,  women,  those  whom 

passions  sway, 
Allows  for  that,  and  keeps  his  con- 
stant way ; 
Whom  others'  faults   do  not  de- 
feat; 
But,  though  men  fail  him,  yet  his 
part  doth  play. 

Wliom  nothing  can  procure. 
When   the  wide  world    runs    bias, 

from  his  will 
To  writhe  his  limbs,  and  share,  not 
mend,  the  ill. 
This  is  the   marksman  safe  and 
sure; 
Who  still  is  right,  and  prays  to  be 
so  still. 

Hebbeet. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND,  TO 
PERSUADE  HIM  TO  THE 
WARS. 

Take  along  with  thee 
Thy    true   friend's    wishes,    Colby, 

which  shall  be, 
That  thine  be  just  and  honest,  that 

thy  deeds 
Not  wound    thy  conscience,  when 

thy  body  bleeds ; 
That  thou  dost  all  things  more  for 

truth  than  glory. 


And  never  but  for  doing  wrong  be 

sorry ; 
That,  by  commanding  first  thyself, 

thou  mak'st 
Thy  person  fit  for  any  charge  thou 

tak'st; 
That  Fortune  never  make  thee  to 

complain, 
But  what  she  gives,  thou  dar'st  give 

her  again ! 
That,  whatsoever  face  thy  Fate  puts 

on. 
Thou  shrink  or  start  not,  but   be 

always  one : 
That  thou  think  nothing  great,  but 

what  is  good ; 
And  from  that  thought  strive  to  be 

understood. 
These  take,   and  now  go  seek  thy 

peace  in  war : 
Who  falls  for  love  of  God  shall  rise 

a  star. 

Ben  Jonson. 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR. 

Who  is  the  happy  warrior  ?  Who  is 
he 

That  every  man  in  arms  should 
wish  to  be  ? 

It  is  the  generous  spirit,  who,  when 
brought 

Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath 
wrought 

Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his 
childish  thought: 

Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward 
light 

That  make  the  path  before  him  al- 
ways bright ; 

Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  dis- 
cern 

What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  dili- 
gent to  learn ; 

Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not 
there, 

But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime 
care ; 

Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with 
pain. 

And  fear,  and  bloodshed,  miserable 
train ! 

Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain ; 

In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 

Which  is  our  human  nature's  high- 
est dower ; 


HEROIC. 


197 


Controls  them  and  subdues,  trans- 
mutes, bereaves 

Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their 
good  receives ; 

By  objects  which  might  force  the 
soul  to  abate 

Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compas- 
sionate ; 

Is  placable,  —  because  occasions  rise 

So  often  that  demand  such  sacri- 
fice; 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even 
more  pure, 

As  tempted  more ;  more  able  to  en- 
dure, 

As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and 
distress ; 

Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tender- 
ness. 

— 'Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason;  who 
depends 

Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of 
friends ; 

Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are 
tempted  still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 

Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation 
rest, 

He  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and 
owes 

To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he 
knows; 

—  Wlio,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  com- 
mand, 

Rises  by  open  means ;  and  there  will 
stand 

On  honorable  tenns,  or  else  retire, 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  de- 
sire; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to 
the  same 

Keeps  faitliful  with  a  singleness  of 
aim; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie 
in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  worldly 
state : 

"Whom  they  must  follow ;  on  whose 
head  must  fall. 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come 
at  all ; 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the 
common  strife. 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinaiy  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar 
grace ; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 


Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven 

has  joined 
Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human 

kind, 
Is  happy  as  a  lover ;  and  attired 
With  sudden  brightness  like  a  man 

inspired ; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict, 

keeps  the  law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he 

foresaw ; 
Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed. 
Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the 

need: 
—  He  who,  though  thus  endued  as 

with  a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbu- 
lence. 
Is    yet  a  soul    whose  master    bias 

leans 
To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle 

scenes ; 
Sweet  images!    which,  wheresoe'er 

he  be. 
Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve ; 
More  brave  for  this,   that  he  hath 

much  to  love : 
'Tis,  finally,  the  man,  who,  lifted 

high, 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  nation's  eye. 
Or  left  unthought  of  in  obsciu-ity,  — 
Who,   with  a  toward  or  untoward 

lot. 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish 

or  not. 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life, 

that  one 
Where  what  he    most  doth    value 

must  be  won ; 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can 

dismay. 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  be- 
tray ; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth 

stand  fast, 
Looks    forward  persevering  to  the 

last. 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-sur- 
passed : 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must 

walk  the  earth 
Forever,  and  to  noble   deeds   give 

birth. 
Or  he  must  go  to  dust  without  his 

fame. 
And    leave     a    dead,    unprofitable 

name,  — 


198 


PARNASSUS. 


Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his 
cause ; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gath- 
ering, draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's 
applause : 

This  is  the  happy  warrior:  this  is 
he 

That  every  man  in   arms    should 
wish  to  be. 

Wordsworth. 


CHRISTIAN  MILITANT. 

A  MAN  prepared  against  all  ills  to 
come, 

That  dares  to  dead  the  fire  of  martyr- 
dom; 

That  sleeps    at  home,  and    sailing 
there  at  ease, 

Fears  not  the  fierce  sedition  of  the 
seas; 

That's    counterproof     against    the 
farm's  mishaps; 

Undreadful  too  of  courtly  thunder- 
claps ; 

That  wears  one  face,   like  heaven, 
and  never  shows 

A  change,  when  fortune  either  comes 
or  goes ; 

That  keeps  his  own  strong  guard,  in 
the  despite 

Of  what  can  hurt  by  day,  or  harm  by 
night; 

That    takes    and  're-delivers    every 
stroke 

Of  chance,  as  made  up  all  of  rock 
and  oak ; 

That  sighs  at  other's  death,  smiles 
at  his  own 

Most  dire  and  horrid  crucifixion; 

Wlio  for  true  glory  suffers  thus,  we 
grant 

Hun  to  be  here  our  Christian  mili- 
tant. 

Herrick. 


THE  PRAYER. 

Ah  God,  for  a  man  with  heart,  head, 

hand. 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones 

gone 
For  ever  and  ever  by, 


Ore  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant 

land, 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,     democrat,      autocrat  — 

one 
Who  can  rule,  and  dare  not  lie ! 

Tennyson. 


ROYALTY. 

That   regal    soul   I   reverence,  in 

whose  eyes 
Suffices    not    all    worth    the    city 

knows 
To   pay   that  debt  which  his  own 

heart  he  owes ; 
For  less  than  level    to  his  bosom 

rise 
The  low  crowd's  heaven  and  stars: 

above  their  skies 
Runneth  the  road  his  daily  feet  have 

pressed ; 
A  loftier  heaven  he  beareth  in  his 

breast. 
And  o'er  the  summits  of  achieving 

hies 
With  never  a  thought  of  merit  or  of 

meed ; 
Choosing  divinest  labors  through  a 

pride 
Of  soul,   that   holdeth    appetite  to 

feed 
Ever  on  angel-herbage,  nought  be- 
side ;  • 
Nor  praises  more  himself  for  hero- 
deed 
Than  stones  for  weight,  or  open  seas 

for  tide. 

D.  A.  Wasson. 


THE  MASTER  SPIRIT. 

Give  me  a  Spirit  that  on  life's  rough 

sea 
Loves  to  have  his  sails  filled  with  a 

lusty  wind, 
Even  till  his  sailyards  tremble,  his 

masts  crack. 
And  his  rapt  ship  run  on  her  side  so 

low 
That  she  drinks  water,  and  her  keel 

ploughs  air: 
There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  that 

knows 


HEROIC. 


199 


Where  life  and  death  is;  there's  not 

any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge,  neither  is  it 

needful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other 

law; 
He  goes  before  them,  and  commands 

them  all, 
That  to  himself  is  a  law  rational. 

George  Chapman. 


CHIVALRY. 

The  house  of  Chivalry  decayed. 

Or  rather  ruined  seems,  her  build- 
ings laid 

Flat  with  the  Earth,  that  were  the 
pride  of  Time ; 

Those  obelisks  and  columns   broke 
and  down. 

That  strook  the  stars,  and  raised  the 
British  Crown 

To  be  a  constellation. 

When  to  the  structure  went  more 
noble  names 

Than  to  the  Ephesian  Temple  lost 
in  flames. 

When  every  stone  was  laid  by  virtu- 
ous hands. 

Ben  Jonson. 


samso:n'  agonistes. 

Samson.  —  O  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid 

the  blaze  of  noon, 
Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse 
Without  all  hope  of  day ! 
O  first  created  beam,  and  thou  great 

Word, 
"Let  there  be  light,  and  light  was 

over  all;" 
Wliy  am  I  thus  bereaved  thy  prime 

decree  ? 
The  sun  to  me  is  dark 
And  silent  as  the  moon. 
When  she  deserts  the  night. 
Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave. 


Chorus.  —  This,  this  is  he ;  softly  a 

while. 
Let  us  not  break  in  upon  him ; 
O  change  beyond  report,  thought,  or 

belief! 


See  how  he  lies  at  random,  carelessly 

diffused. 
With  languished  head  unpropped, 
As  one  past  hope,  abandoned. 
And  by  himself  given  over ; 
In  slavish  habit,"ill-fitted  weeds 
O'er- worn  and  soiled ; 
Or  do  my  eyes  misrepresent?    can 

this  be  he. 
That  heroic,  that  renowned, 
Irresistible  Samson  ?  whom  unarmed 
No  strength  of  man  or  fiercest  wild 

beast  could  withstand ; 
Who  tore  the  lion,  as  the  lion  tears 

the  kid. 
Ran  on  embattled  armies    clad  in 

iron. 
And,  weaponless  himself. 
Made  arms   ridiculous,   useless  the 

forgery 
Of  brazen  shield  and  spear,  the  ham- 
mered cuirass, 
Chalybean  tempered  steel,  and  frock 

of  mail 
Adamantean  proof ; 
But  safest  he  who  stood  aloof. 
When    insupportably    his    foot    ad- 
vanced. 
In  scorn  of  their  proud  arms  and 

warlike  tools. 
Spurned  them  to  death  by  troops. 

The  bold  Ascalonite 
Fled  from  his  lion  ramp ;  old  war- 
riors turned 
Their  plated  backs  under  his  heel, 
Or,  grovelling,   soiled  their  crested 

helmets  in  the  dust. 
Then  with  what  trivial  weapon  came 

to  hand. 
The  jaw  of  a  dead  ass,  his  sword  of 

bone, 
A  thousand  foreskins  fell,  the  flower 

of  Palestine 
In  Ramath-leclii,  famous  to  this  day : 
Then  by  main  force  pulled  up,  and 

on  his  shoulders  bore 
The  gates  of  Azza,  post,  and  massy 

bar. 
Up  to  the  hill  by  Hebron,  seat  of 

giants  old. 
No  journey  of  a  Sabbath  day,  and 

loaded  so ; 
Like  whom  the  Gentiles  feign  to  bear 

up  heaven. 
Which  shall  I  first  bewail. 
Thy  bondage  or  lost  sight, 
Prison  within  prison 
Inseparably  dark  ? 


200 


PARNASSUS. 


Thou  art  become,  O  worst  imprison- 
ment ! 
Tlie  dungeon  of  thyself;  thy  soul, 
Which  men  enjoying  sight  oft  with- 
out cause  complain, 
Imprisoned  now  indeed, 
In  real  darkness  of  the  body  dwells. 
Shut  up  from  outward  light, 
T'  incorporate  with  gloomy  night. 

Oh,  how  comely  it  is,  and  how  re- 
viving 

To  the  spirits  of  just  men  long 
oppressed, 

When  God  into  the  hands  of  their 
deliverer 

Puts  invincible  might 

To  quell  the  mighty  of  the  earth,  the 
oppressor, 

The  brute  and  boisterous  force  of 
violent  men. 

Hardy  and  industrious  to  support 

Tyrannic  power,  but  raging  to 
pursue 

The  righteous,  and  all  such  as  honor 
truth ! 

He  all  their  ammunition 

And  feats  of  war  defeats. 

With  plain  heroic  magnitude  of  mind 

And  celestial  vigor  armed ; 

Their  armories  and  magazines  con- 
temns, 

Renders  them  useless,  while 

With  winged  expedition. 

Swift  as  the  lightning  glance,  he 
executes 

His  errand  on  the  wicked,  who  sur- 
prised 

Lose  their  defence,  distracted  and 
amazed. 

Officer. — Samson,  to  thee  our  lords 

thus  bid  me  say ; 
This  day  to  Dagon  is  a  solemn  feast. 
With  sacrifices,  triumph,  pomp,  and 

games ; 
Thy  strength  they  know  surpassing 

human  rate. 
And  now  some  public  proof  thereof 

require 
To  honor  this  great  feast  and  great 

assembly ; 
Rise  therefore  with    all    speed  and 

come  along, 
Where  I  will  see  thee  heartened  and 

fresh  clad 
T'  appear  as  fits  before  the  illustri- 
ous lords. 


Saym. — Thou  know'st  I  am  an 
Hebrew,  therefore  tell  them, 

Our  law  forbids  at  their  religious 
rites 

My  presence ;  for  that  cause  I  can- 
not come. 

Chor.  —  How  thou  wilt  here  come 

off  surmounts  my  reach. 
Sams.  —  Be    of    good    courage,   I 

begin  to  feel 
Some  rousing  motions  in  me,  which 

dispose 
To     something    extraordinary    my 

thoughts. 
I  with  this  messenger  will  go  along, 
Nothing  to  do,  be  sure,  tliat  may 

dishonor 
Our  law,  or  stain  my  vow  of  Naza- 

rite. 
If  there  be  aught  of  presage  in  the 

mind. 
This  day  will  be  remarkable  in  my 

life 
By  some  great  act,  or  of  my  days 

the  last. 
Chor.  —  In    time    thou    hast    re- 
solved ;  the  man  returns. 
Ojf. — Samson,  this    second  mes- 
sage from  our  lords 
To  thee  I  am  bid  say.    Art  thou  our 

slave. 
Our  captive,  at  the  public  mill  our 

drudge, 
And  dar'st  thou  at  our  sending  and 

command 
Dispute  thy  coming  ?  come  without 

delay ; 
Or  we  shall  find  such    engines    to 

assail 
And  hamper  thee,    as    thou    shalt 

come  of  force, 
Thougli  thou  wert  firmlier  fastened 

than  a  rock. 
Smns.  —  I  could  be  well  content  to 

try  their  art, 
Wliich  to  no  few  of   them  would 

prove  pernicious ; 
Yet  knowing  their  advantages    too 

many. 
Because    they    shall    not    trail    me 

through  their  streets 
Like  a  wild  beast,  I  am  content  to 

go. 

Manoah.  —  O  what  noise ! 
Mercy  of  heaven,  what  hideous  noise 
was  that ! 


HEROIC. 


201 


Horribly    loud,   unlike    the    former 

shout. 
Chor.  —  To  our  wish  I    see    one 

hither  speeding, 
An  Hebrew,  as  I  guess,  and  of  our 

tribe. 
Messenger.  —  Gaza  yet  stands,  but 

all  her  sons  are  fallen, 
All  in  a  moment  overwhelmed  and 

fallen. 

Occasions  drew  me  early  to  this  city. 
And  as  the  gates  I  entered  with  sun- 
rise, 
The  morning  trumpets  festival  pro- 
claimed 
Through  each  high-street.     Little  I 

had  despatched 
When  all  abroad  was  rumored,  that 

this  day 
Samson  should  be  brought  forth  to 

show  the  people 
Proof  of  his  mighty  strength  in  feats 

and  games ; 
I  sorrowed  at  his  captive  state,  but 

minded 
Not  to  be  absent  at  that  spectacle. 
The  building  was  a  spacious  theatre. 
Half-round,    on    two    main    pillars 

vaulted  high. 
With  seats,  where  all  the  lords  and 

each  degree 
Of  sort  might  sit  in  order  to  behold ; 
The  other  side  was  open,  where  the 

throng 
On  banks  and  scaffolds  under  sky 

might  stand ; 
I  among  these  aloof  obscurely  stood. 
The  feast  and  noon  grew  high,  and 

sacrifice 
Had  filled  their  hearts  with  mirth, 

high  cheer,  and  wine. 
When  to  their  sports  they  turned. 

Immediately 
Was  Samson  as  a    public    servant 

brought. 
In  their  state  livery  clad ;  before  him 

pipes 
And  timbrels,   on  each    side  went 

armed  guards. 
Both  horse  and  foot,  before  him  and 

behind 
Archers,  and  slingers,   cataphracts, 

and  spears. 
At  sight  of  him  the  people  with  a 

shout 
Rifted  the  air,  clamoring  their  God 

with  praise, 


Who  had  made  their  dreadful  enemy 

their  thrall. 
He  patient,  but  undaunted,  where 

they  led  him. 
Came  to  the  place,  and  what  was  set 

before  him, 
Which  without  help  of  eye  might  be 

assayed, 
To  heave,  pull,  draw,  or  break,  he 

still  performed 
All  with  incredible  stupendous  force, 
None  daring  to  appear  antagonist. 
At  length  for  intermission  sake  they 

led  him 
Between  the  pillars;  he  his  guide 

requested. 
For  so  from  such  as  nearer  stood  we 

heard. 
As  over-tired  to  let  him  lean  awhile 
With  both  his  arms  on  those  two 

massy  pillars. 
That  to  the  arched  roof  gave  main 

support. 
He    unsuspicious    led   him;    which 

when  Samson 
Felt  in  his  arms,  with  head  awhile 

inclined. 
And  eyes  fast  fixt  he  stood,  as  one 

who  prayed, 
Or  some  great  matter  in  his  mind 

revolved : 
At  last  with  head  erect  thus  cried 

aloud, 
"  Hitherto,  lords,  what    your  com- 
mands imposed 
I  have    performed,  as    reason  was, 

obeying, 
Not  without  wonder  or  delight  be- 
held: 
Now  of  my  own  accord  such  other 

trial 
I  mean  to  show  you  of  my  strength, 

yet  greater. 
As  with  amaze  shall  strike  all  who 

behold." 
This  uttered,  straining  all  his  nerves 

he  bowed ; 
As  with    the    force    of   winds    and 

waters  pent. 
When  mountains  tremble,  those  two 

massy  pillars 
With  horrible  convulsion  to  and  fro 
He  tugged,  he  shook,  till  down  they 

came,  and  drew 
The  whole  roof    after  them,   with 

burst  of  thunder 
Upon  the  heads  of  all  who  sat  be- 
neath. 


202 


PARNASSUS. 


Lords,  ladies,  captains,  counsellors, 

or  priests. 
Their  choice  nobility  and  flower,  not 

only 
Of  this,  but  each  Philistian  city  round, 
Met  from  all  parts  to  solemnize  this 

feast. 
Samson,\vith  these  immixt.inevitably 
Pulled  down  the  same   destruction 

on  himself; 
The  vulgar  only  'scaped  who  stood 

without. 

2.  Semi-chorus. — But  he,  though 

blind  of  sight, 
Despised  and  thought  extinguished 

quite, 
With  inward  eyes  illuminated, 
His  fiery  virtue  roused 
From  under  ashes  into  sudden  flame, 
Not  as  an  evening  dragon  came, 
Assailant  on  the  perched  roosts 
And  nests  in  order  ranged 
Of  tame  villatic  fowl ;  but  as  an  eagle 
His  cloudless  thunder  bolted  on  their 

heads. 
So  virtue  given  for  lost, 
Depressed,     and     overthrown,     as 

seemed. 
Like  that  self-begotten  bird 
In  the  Arabian  woods  imbost. 
That  no  second  knows  nor  third. 
And  lay  ere  while  a  holocaust. 
From    out    her   ashy    womb    now 

teemed. 
Revives,  reflourishes,  then  vigorous 

most 
Wlien  most  unactive  deemed ; 
And  though  her  body  die,  her  fame 

survives, 
A  secular  bird,  ages  of  lives. 
Man.  —  Come,  come,  no  time  for 

lamentation  now, 
Nor  much  more  cause :  Samson  hath 

quit  himself 
Like  Samson,  and  heroically  hath 

finished 
A  life  heroic,  on  his  enemies 
Fully  revenged. 

Milton. 


ARIADNE'S  FAREWELL. 

The  daughter  of  a  king,  how  should 

I  know 
That  there  were  tinsels  wearing  face 

of  gold, 


And  worthless  glass,  which  in  the 

sunlight's  hold 
Could    shameless   answer  back  my 

diamond's  glow 
With  cheat  of   kindred  fire?     The 

currents  slow. 
And  deep,  and  strong,  and  stainless, 

which  had  rolled 
Through  royal  veins  for  ages,  what 

had  told 
To  them    that  hasty  heat  and  lie 

could  show 
As  quick  and  warm  a  red  as  theirs  ? 

Go  free ! 
The  sun  is  breaking  on  the  sea's  blue 

shield 
Its  golden  lances ;  by  their  gleam  I 

see 
Thy  ship's  white  sails.     Go  free,  if 

scorn  can  yield 
Thee  freedom ! 

Then,  alone,  my  love  and  I,  — 
We  both  are  royal ;  we  know  how  to 

die. 

H.  H. 

CORONATION. 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 
Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun ; 

Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 
The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the   king's   gate,  unques- 
tioned then, 
A    beggar    went,     and    laughed, 
*'  This  brings 
Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 

The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his 
crown. 

Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand ; 
Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down 

Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

"Poor  man,  what  wouldst  thou 
have  of  me?" 

The  beggar  turned,  and  pitying. 
Replied,  like  one  in  dream,  "  Of  thee, 

Nothing.     I  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  off  the  crown,  and  threw  it 
by. 
"  O  man !  thou  must  have  known," 
he  said. 
"A  greater  king  than  I." 


HEROIC. 


203 


Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned 
then, 
Went  king    and  beggar  hand   in 
hand. 
Wliispered  the  king,  "  Shall  I  know 
wlien 
Before  his  throne  I  stand?  " 

The  beggar  laughed.     Free  winds  in 
haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot 
brow 
The  crimson  lines  the  crown   had 
traced. 
"  This  is  his  presence  now." 

At  the  king's  gate,  the  crafty  noon 
Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun ; 

Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 
The  guards  waked  one  by  one. 

"  Ho  here !  Ho  there !    Has  no  man 
seen 
The  king?"     The  cry  ran  to  and 
fro; 
Beggar  and  king,   they  laughed,  I 
ween. 
The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew 
gray; 
The  king  came  not.     They  called 
him  dead ; 
And  made  his  eldest  son  one  day 
Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 

H.  H. 


JEPHTHAH'S  DAUGHTER. 

Since  our  country,  our  God  —  Oh! 

my  sire ! 
Demand  that  thy  daughter  expire ; 
Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy 

vow. 
Strike  the  bosom  that's   bared  for 

thee  now ! 

And  the  voice  of  my  mourning  is  o'er, 
And  the  mountains  behold  me  no 

more : 
If  the  hand  that  I  love  lay  me  low. 
There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow ! 

And    of    this,   oh,    my    father!    be 

sure, 
That  the  blood  of  thy  child  is  as 

pure 


As  the  blessing  I  beg  ere  it  flow. 
And  the  last  thought  that  soothes 
me  below. 

Though  the  virgins  of  Salem  la- 
ment, 

Be  the  judge  and  the  hero  unbent! 

I  have  won  the  great  battle  for 
thee, 

And  my  father  and  country  are 
free! 

When  this  blood  of  thy  giving  hath 

gushed. 
When  the  voice  that  thou  lovest  is 

hushed. 
Let  my  memory  still  be  thy  pride. 
And  forget  not  I  smiled  as  I  died ! 

Bykon. 


SONG  OF  SAUL  BEFORE  HIS 
LAST  BATTLE. 

Warriors  and  chiefs!  should  the 

shaft  or  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the 

Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's, 

in  your  path : 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of 

Gath! 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler 

and  bow, 
Should  the    soldiers  of    Saul    look 

away  from  the  foe, 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at 

thy  feet ! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared 

not  to  meet. 

Farewell    to  others,  but  never  we 

part. 
Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart : 
Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the 

sway. 
Or  kingly  the  death,  which  awaits 

us  to-day ! 

Bybon. 


CASSIUS. 

Well,  honor  is  the  subject  of  my 

story.  — 
I  cannot  tell,  what  you  and  other 

men 


204 


PARNASSUS. 


Think  of  this  life ;  but,  for  my  sin- 
gle self 
I  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Caesar;  so  were 

you: 
We  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we 

can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold,  as  well  as 

he. 
For  once  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day. 
The  troubled  Tiber  chafing  with  her 

shores, 
Caesar  said  to  me,  "  Barest  thou,  Cas- 

siiis,  noio 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood, 
And  swim  to  yonder  point  f  "     Upon 

the  word, 
Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in. 
And  bade  him  follow:  so,  indeed, 

he  did. 
The    torrent   roared,    and    we    did 

buffet  it 
With  lusty  sinews ;  throwing  it  aside. 
And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  con- 
troversy. 
But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point 

proposed, 
CaBsar  cried,  ^'' Help  me,  Cassius,  or 

I  sink.'' ^ 
I,  as  ^neas,  our  great  ancestor. 
Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon 

his  shoulders 
The  old  Anchises  bear,  so,  from  the 

waves  of  Tiber 
Did  I  the  tired  Caesar :  and  this  man 
Is  now  become  a  god;  and  Cassius  is 
A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend 

his  body,  » 

If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
He   had    a  fever  when  he  was  in 

Spain ; 
And  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did 

mark 
How  he  did  shake :  'tis  true,  this  god 

did  shake : 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  color 

fly; 

And    that    same    eye,  whose  bend 

doth  awe  the  world, 
Did  lose  his  lustre ;  I  did  hear  him 

groan : 
Ay,   and  that  tongue  of  his,   that 

bade  the  Romans 
Mark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in 

their  books, 
Alas  I  it  cried,  "  Give  me  some  drink, 

Titinius;' 


As  a    sick  girl.     Ye  gods,   it  doth 

amaze  me, 
A   man    of    such    a  feeble   temper 

should 
So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 
And  bear  the  palm  alone. 
Why,   man,  he    doth    bestride    the 

narrow  world, 
Like  a  Colossus ;  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep 

about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonorable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of 

their  fates ; 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our 

stars 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  under- 
lings. 
Brutus  and  Caesar:  What  should  be 

in  that  Caesar  ? 
Why  should  that  name  be  sounded 

more  than  yours  ? 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair 

a  name ; 
Sound    them,  it  doth  become    the 

mouth  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy ;  conjure 

with  them, 
Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as 

Caesar. 
Now  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at 

once. 
Upon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Cae- 
sar feed, 
That  he  is  grown  so  great?    Age, 

thou  art  shamed : 
Rome,  thou    hast  lost  the  breed  of 

noble  bloods ! 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since 

the  great  flood, 
But  it  was  famed  with  more  than 

with  one  man  ? 
When  could  they  say,  till  now,  that 

talked  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walls  encompassed 

but  one  man  ? 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed,  and  room 

enough, 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only 

man, 
O !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers 

say. 
There  was  a  Brutus  once,  that  would 

have  brooked 
The  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state 

in  Rome, 
As  easily  as  a  king. 

Shakspeare. 


HEROIC. 


205 


ANTONY  OVER  THE  DEAD 
BODY  OF  C^SAR. 

Antony.  —  Friends,  Romans,  coun- 
trymen, lend  me  your  ears : 

I  come  to  bury  Csesar,  not  to  praise 
him. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them ; 

The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their 
bones ; 

So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.  The  noble 
Brutus 

Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious ; 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault, 

And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answered 
it. 

Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus,  and 
the  rest, 

(For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man; 

So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men;) 

Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 

He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just 
to  me: 

But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 

And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 

He  hath  brought  many  captives 
home  to  Rome, 

Whose  ransoms  did  the  general 
coffers  fill : 

Did  this  in  Cgesar  seem  ambitious  ? 

When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Cae- 
sar hath  wept : 

Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner 
stuff: 

Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious. 

And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 

You  all  did  see,  that  on  the  Lu- 
percal ; 

I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly 
crown, 

Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.  Was 
this  ambition  ? 

Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 

And,  sure,  he  is  an  honorable  man. 

I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus 
spoke ; 

But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do 
know. 

You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  with- 
out cause ; 

What  cause  withholds  you,  then,  to 
mourn  for  him  ? 

O  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish 
beasts. 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason !  — 
bear  with  me ; 

My  heart  is  in  the  cofl&n  there  with 
Caesar, 


And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back 

to  me. 
But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Caesar 

might 
Have  stood  against  the  world :  now 

lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  rever- 

ence. 

0  masters!    if  I  were  disposed  to 

stir 
Your  hearts  and-  minds  to  mutiny 
and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cas- 

sius  wrong. 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honorable 

men: 
I  will  not  do  them  wrong ;  I  rather 

choose 
To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself, 

and  you. 
Than  I  will  wrong  such  honorable 

men. 
But  here's   a  parchment,  with  the 

seal  of  Caesar, 
I  found  it  in  his  closet,  'tis  his  will : 
Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  tes- 
tament, 
(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean 

to  read,) 
And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead 

Caesar's  wounds. 
And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred 

blood: 
Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 
And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their 

wills. 
Bequeathing  it,  as  a  rich  legacy. 
Unto  their  issue. 

Citizen. — We'll    hear    the    will; 

Read  it,  Mark  Antony. 
Citizen. — The  will,  the  will;  we 

will  hear  Caesar's  will. 
Antony.  —  Have    patience,    gentle 

friends,  I  must  not  read  it; 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar 

loved  you. 
You    are    not    wood,   you    are   not 

stones,  but  men ; 
And  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of 

Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you 

mad: 
'Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you 

are  his  heirs. 
For  if  you  should,  O,  what  would 

come  of  it ! 
at.  —  Read    the    will ;    we    will 

hear  it,  Antony, 


206 


PAKKASSUS. 


You  shall  read  us  the  will;  Caesar's 
will. 
Antony.  —  Will    you  be    patient? 
Will  you  stay  awhile  ? 

I  have  o'ershot  myself,  to  tell  you 
of  it. 

I  fear  I  wrong  the  honorable  men, 

Whose  daggers  have  stabbed  Caesar  : 
I  do  fear  it. 
at.  —  They  were  traitors :  Honor- 
able men ! 
Cit.  —  The  will !  the  testament ! 
Cit.  —  They   were    villains,    mur- 
derers :    the    will !    read    the 
will! 
Ant.  —  You  will  compel  me  then 
to  read  the  will, 

Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corse 
of  Caesar, 

And    let   me    show  you   him  that 
made  the  will. 

Shall  1  descend  ?    And  will  you  give 
me  leave? 
Cit.  —  Come  down. 
Ant.  —  Nay,  press  not    so    upon 

me ;  stand  far  off. 
Cit.  —  Stand  back !    room !    bear 

back! 
Ant.  —  K  you  have  tears,  prepare 
to  shed  them  now. 

You  all    do  know  this   mantle:    I 
remember 

The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on ; 

'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening  in  his 
tent ; 

That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii  :  — 

Look!    in   this    place    ran   Cassius' 
dagger  through : 

See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca 
made : 

Through  this,  the  well-beloved  Bru- 
tus stabbed : 

And,  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel 
away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  fol- 
lowed it; 

As    rushing    out    of    doors,   to    be 
resolved 

If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knocked,  or  no ; 

For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Cae- 
sar's angel: 

Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Cae- 
sar loved  him ! 

This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all. 

For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him 
stab. 

Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  trai- 
tors' arms, 


Quite  vanquished  him:  then  burst 

his  mighty  heart ; 
And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his 

face. 
Even    at    the    base    of    Pompey's 

statue. 
Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great 

Caesar  fell. 
O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  country- 
men! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us,  fell 

down, 
Wliilst    bloody    treason    flourished 

over  us. 
O,  now  you  weep!  and  I  perceive 

you  feel 
The  dint  of  pity :  these  are  gracious 

drops. 
Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you  when 

you  but  behold 
Our     Caesar's     vesture     wounded? 

Look  you  here. 
Here  is  himself,  marred,  as  you  see, 

with  traitors. 


Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me 

not  stir  you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are 

honorable ; 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas, 

I  know  not. 
That  made  them  do  it ;  they  are  wise 

and  honorable, 
And  will,   no  doubt,   with  reasons 

answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away 

your  hearts : 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is. 
But  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain 

blunt  man, 
That  love  my  friend :  and  that  they 

know  full  well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak 

of  him. 
For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words, 

nor  worth. 
Action,     nor    utterance,     nor     the 

power  of  speech. 
To  stir  men's  blood:  I  only  speak 

right  on ; 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves 

do  know ; 
Show  you  sweet  Caesar's   wounds, 

poor,  poor  dumb  mouths. 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me:  But 

were  I  Brutus, 


HEROIC. 


207 


And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an 

Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put 

a  tongue 
In    every    wound    of    Caesar,    that 

should  move 
The    stones    of    Rome  to  rise   and 

mutiny. 

Shakspeare. 


SPEECH  OF  THE  DAUPHIN. 

BaupJdn.  —  Your  grace  shall  par- 
don me,  I  will  not  back ; 
I  am  too  high-born  to  be  propertied, 
To  be  a  secondary  at  control, 
Or  useful  serving-man  and  instru- 
ment. 
To  any  sovereign  state  throughout 

the  world. 
Your  breath  first  kindled  the  dead 

coal  of  wars, 
Between  this  chastised  kingdom  and 

myself, 
And  brought  in  matter  that  should 

feed  this  fire ; 
And  now  'tis  far  too  huge  to  be 

blown  out 
With  that  same  weak  wind  which 

enkindled  it. 
You  taught  me  how  to  know  the 

face  of  right. 
Acquainted  me  with  interest  to  this 

land. 
Yea,  thrust  this  enterprise  into  my 

heart ; 
And  come  you  now  to  tell  me,  John 

hath  made 
His  peace  with  Rome  ?    What  is  that 

peace  to  me  ? 
I,  by  the  honor  of  my  marriage-bed. 
After  young  Arthur,  claim  this  land 

for  mine ; 
And,  now  it  is  half  conquered,  must 

I  back. 
Because  that  John  hath  made  his 

peace  with  Rome  ? 
Am  I  Rome's  slave?    What  penny 

hath  Rome  borne. 
What  men  provided,  what  munition 

sent, 
To  underprop  this  action  ?   Is't  not  I, 
That  undergo  this   charge?     Who 

else  but  I, 
And  such  as  to  my  claim  are  liable. 
Sweat  in  this  business,  and  maintain 

this  war  ? 


Have  I  not  heard    these   islanders 
shout  out, 

Vive  le  roy!  as  I  have  banked  their 
towns  ? 

Have  I  not  here  the  best  cards  for 
the  game. 

To  win  this  easy  match  played  for  a 
crown  ? 

And  shall  I  now  give  o'er  the  yielded 
set? 

No,   on  my  soul,  it  never  shall  be 
said. 
Outside  or  inside,  I  will  not  re- 
turn 

Till  my  attempt  so  much  be  glori- 
fied 

As  to  my  ample  hope  was  promised 

Before  I  drew  this  gallant  head  of 
war. 

And  culled  these  fiery  spirits  from 
the  world. 

To  outlook  conquest,  and  to  win  re- 
nown 

Even  in  the  jaws  of  danger  and  of 
death. 

Shakspeare:  King  John. 


HOTSPUR'S  QUARREL  WITH 
HENRY  IV. 

Hotspur.  —  The  king  is  kind ;  and 
well  we  know,  the  king 

Knows  at  what  time  to  promise, when 
to  pay. 

My  father,  and  my  uncle,  and  my- 
self. 

Did  give  him  that  same  royalty  he 
wears : 

And,  —  when  he  was  not  six  and 
twenty  strong. 

Sick  in  the  world's  regard,  wretched 
and  low, 

A  poor  unminded  outlaw  sneaking 
home,  — 

My  father  gave  him  welcome  to  the 
shore : 

And,  —  when  he  heard  him  swear, 
and  vow  to  God, 

He  came  but  to  be  Duke  of  Lancas- 
ter, 

To  sue  his  livery,  and  beg  his  peace ; 

With  tears  of  innocency,  and  terms 
of  zeal, — 

My  father  in  kind  heart  and  pity 
moved. 

Swore  him  assistance,  and  performed 
it  too. 


208 


PARNASSUS. 


Now  when  the  lords  and  barons  of 

the  reahn 
Perceived  Northumberland  did  lean 

to  him, 
The  more  and  less  came  in  with  cap 

and  knee, 
Met  him  in  boroughs,  cities,  villages ; 
Attended  him  on  bridges,  stood  in 

lanes, 
Laid  gifts  before  him,  proffered  him 

their  oaths. 
Gave  him  their  heirs  as  pages ;  fol- 
lowed him. 
Even  at  the  heels,  in  golden  multi- 
tudes. 
He  presently,  —  as  greatness  knows 

itself,  — 
Steps  me  a  little  higher  than  his  vow 
Made  to  my  father,  while  his  blood 

was  poor. 
Upon  the  naked  shore  at  Ravens- 

purg; 
And  now,  forsooth,  takes  on  him  to 

reform 
Some    certain    edicts,     and     some 

strait  decrees, 
That  lie  too  heavy  on  the  common- 
wealth : 
Cries  out  upon    abuses,    seems    to 

weep 
Over  his  country's  wrongs;  and  by 

this  face. 
This  seeming  brow  of  justice,  did  he 

win 
The  hearts  of  all  that  he  did  angle 

for. 
Proceeded  farther;    cut  me  off  the 

heads 
Of  all  the  favorites,  that  the  absent 

king 
In  deputation  left  behind  him  here, 
Wlien  he  was  personal  in  the  Irish 

war. 

Then  to  the  point.  — 
In  short  time  after,  he  deposed  the 

king; 
Soon  after  that,  deprived  him  of  his 

life: 
And,  in  the  neck  of  that,  tasked  the 

whole  state ; 
To  make  that  worse,   suffered  his 

kinsman,  March, 
{Wlio  is,  if  every  owner  were  well 

placed. 
Indeed  his  king),  to  be  incaged  in 

Wales, 
There  without  ransom   to  lie    for- 
feited : 


Disgraced  me  in  my  happy   victo- 
ries ; 

Sought  to  entrap  me  by  intelligence ; 

Rated  my  uncle  from  the  council- 
board  ; 

In  rage  dismissed  my  father  from 
the  court; 

Broke    oath    on    oath,    committed 
wrong  on  wrong. 

And,  in  conclusion,  drove  us  to  seek 
out 

This  head  of  safety ;  and,  withal,  to 
pry 

Into  his  title,  the  which  we  find 

Too  indirect  for  long  continuance. 
Shakspeare  :  King  Henry  IV. 


HOTSPUR. 

King  Henry.  —  Send  us  your  pris- 
oners,  or  you'll  hear    of    it. 
\Exit. 
Hotspur.  —  And  if  the  devil  come 
and  roar  for  them, 

I  will  not  send  them :  —  I  will  after 
straight, 

And  tell  him  so :  for  I  will  ease  my 
heart. 

Although  it  be  with  hazard  of  my 
head. 

Not  speak  of  Mortimer  ? 

Zounds,  I  will  speak  of  him;  and  let 
my  soul 

Want  mercy,  if  I  do  not  join  with 
him: 

Yea,  on  his  part,  I'll  empty  all  these 
veins, 

And  shed  my  dear  blood  drop  by 
drop  in  the  dust 

But  I  will  lift  the  down-trod  Morti- 
mer 

As  high  in  the  air  as  this  unthankful 
king, 

As  this  ingrate  and  cankered  Boling- 
broke. 

He  will,  forsooth,  have  all  my  prison- 
ers. 

And  when  I  urged  the  ransom  once 
again. 

Of  my  wife's  brother,  then  his  cheek 
looked  pale ; 

And  on  my  face  he  turned  an  eye  of 
death. 

Trembling  even  at  the  name  of  Mor- 
timer. 
.     .     .     I  cannot  blame  his  cousin 
king, 


HEROIC. 


209 


That  wished    him    on    the    barren 

mountains  starved, 
But  shall  it  be,  that  you,  —  that  set 

the  crown 
Upon  the  head  of  this  forgetful  man, 
And,  for  his  sake,  wear  the  detested 

blot 
Of  murderous  subornation,  —  shall  it 

be, 
That  you  a  world  of  curses  undergo, 
Being  the   agents,   or  base    second 

means. 
The  cords,  the  ladder,  or  the  hang- 
man rather?  — 
(O,  pardon  me,  that  I  descend  so  low, 
To  show  the  line, and  the  predicament. 
Wherein  you  range  under  this  subtle 

king,  — ) 
Shall  it,  for  shame,   be  spoken  in 

these  days, 
Or  fill  up  chronicles  in  time  to  come, 
That  men  of  your  nobility  and  power. 
Did  gage  them  both  in  an  unjust  be- 
half, — 
As  both  of  you,  God  pardon  it  I  have 

done,  — 
To  put  down  Richard,   that  sweet 

lovely  rose. 
And  plant  this  thorn,  this   canker, 
Bolingbroke  ? 

Send  danger  from  the  east  unto  the 
west, 

So  honor  cross  it  from  the  north  to 
south. 

And  let  them  grapple ;  O !  the  blood 
more  stirs 

To  rouse  a  lion  than  to  start  a  hare. 

By  heaven,   methinks,   it   were    an 
easy  leap, 

To  pluck  bright  Honor  from  the  pale- 
faced  moon ; 

Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 

Where  fathom-line  could  never  touch 
the  ground. 

And  pluck  up  drowned  honor  by  the 
locks ; 

So  he  that  doth  redeem  her  thence, 
might  wear. 

Without  €orrival,  all  her  dignities: 

But  out  upon  this  half-faced  fellow- 
ship ! 
Worcester.  —  Those     same    noble 
Scots, 

That  are  your  prisoners,  — 
Hot.  —  I'll  keep  them  all ; 

By  heaven,  he  shall  not  have  a  Scot 
of  them: 

14 


No,  if  a  Scot  would  save  his  soul,  he 

shall  not: 
I'll  keep  them,  bv  this  hand. 

I  will;  that's  flat:  — 

He  said  he  would  not  ransom  Morti- 
mer; 

Forbade  my  tongue  to  speak  of  Mor- 
timer ; 

But  I  will   find  him  when  he  lies 
asleep. 

And  in  his  ear  I'll  holla — "Morti- 
mer!" 

Nay, 

I'll  have  a  starling  shall  be  taught  to 
speak 

Nothing  but  Mortimer,  and  give  it 
him. 

To  keep  his  anger  still  in  motion. 

All  studies  here  I  solemnly  defy. 

Save  how  to  gall  and  pinch  this  Bo- 
lingbroke : 

And    that  same  sword-and-buckler 
Prince  of  Wales,  — 

But  that  I  think  his  father  loves  him 
not. 

And  would  be  glad    he  met   with 
some  mischance, 

I'd  have  him  poisoned  with  a  pot  of 
ale. 

^Yhy,  look  you,  I  am  whipped  and 
scourged  with  rods. 

Nettled,   and  stung  with  pismires, 
when  I  hear 

Of  this  vile  politician,  Bolingbroke. 

In  Richard's  time,  —  AYhat  do  you 
call  the  place  ? 

A  plague  upon't!  it  is  in  Gloucester- 
shire ;  — 

'Twas  where  the  madcap  duke  his 
uncle  kept ; 

His    uncle    York ;  —  where    I    first 
bowed  my  knee 

Unto  this   king  of  smiles,  this  Bo- 
lingbroke, 

When  you  and  he  came  back  from 
Ravenspurg. 

"Why,  what  a  candy  deal  of  courtesy 

This  fawning  greyhound   then  did 
proffer  me ! 

Look,  —  ivhen  his  infant  fortune  came 
to  age, 

And, — gentle  Harry    Percy,  —  and 
kind  cousin,  — 

The    devil   take    such    cozeners!  — 
Heaven  forgive  me !  — 

Good  uncle,  tell  your  tale,  for  I  have 
done. 
Shakspeabe  :  King  Henry  IV. 


210 


P.1RNASSUS. 


HENRY    V.'S    AUDIENCE     OF 
FRENCH  AMBASSADORS. 

Henry  V. — Call  in  the  messen- 
gers sent  from  the  Dauphin. 

[Exit  an  Attendant.  The  King 
ascends  his  throne.  \ 

Now  are  we  well  resolved:  and, — 
by  God's  help, 

And  yours,  the  noble  sinews  of  our 
power,  — 

France  being  ours,  we'll  bend  it  to 
our  awe, 

Or  break  it  all  to  pieces:  or  there 
we'll  sit, 

Ruling  in  large  and  ample  empery. 

O'er  France,  and  all  her  almost 
kingly  dukedoms, 

Or  lay  these  bones  in  an  unworthy  urn, 

Tombless,  with  no  remembrance 
over  them : 

Either  our  history  shall,  with  full 
mouth, 

Speak  freely  of  our  acts ;  or  else  our 
grave, 

Like  Turkish  mute,  shall  have  a 
tongueless  moiith, 

Not  worshipped  with  a  waxen  epi- 
taph. 

Enter  Ambassadors  of  Fkance. 

Now  are  we  well  prepared  to  know 
the  pleasure 

Of  our  fair  cousin  Dauphin ;  for  we 
hear 

Your  greeting  is  from  him,  not  from 
the  king. 

[And  as  the  Dauphin  sends  us  ten- 
nis-balls,! 

We  are  glad  the  Dauphin  is  so  pleas- 
ant with  us: 

His  present,  and  your  pains,  we 
thank  you  for : 

When  we  have  matched  om-  rackets 
to  these  balls. 

We  will,  in  France,  by  God's  grace, 
play  a  set. 

Shall  striice  his  father's  crown  into 
the  hazard : 

Tell  him,  he  hath  made  a  match 
with  such  a  wrangler, 

That  all  the  courts  of  France  will  be 
disturbed 

With  chaces.  And  we  understand 
him  well. 

How  he  comes  o'er  us  with  our  wild- 
er days. 

Not  measuring  what  use  we  made 
of  them. 


We  never  valued  this  poor  seat  of 

England ; 
And  therefore,  living  hence,  did  give 

ourself 
To  barbarous  license;    as  'tis  ever 

common, 
That  men  are  merriest  when  they 

are  from  home. 
But  tell  the  Dauphin, — I  will  keep 

my  state ; 
Be  like  a  king,  and  show  my  sail  of 

greatness. 
When  I  do  rouse  me  in  my  throne 

of  France : 
For  that  I  have  laid  by  my  majesty. 
And  plodded  like  a  man  for  working- 
days; 
But  I  will  rise  there  with  so  full  a 

glory. 
That  I  will  dazzle  all  the  eyes   of 

France, 
Yea,   strike  the  Dauphin  blind  to 

look  on  us. 
And  tell  the  pleasant  prince, — this 

mock  of  his 
Hath  turned  his  balls  to  gun-stones ; 

and  his  soul 
Shall  stand  sore    charged    for    the 

wasteful  vengeance 
That  shall  fly  with  them :  for  many 

a  thousand  widows 
Shall  this  his  mock  mock  out  of  their 

dear  husbands : 
Mock  mothers  from  their  sons,  mock 

castles  down ; 
And  some  are  yet  ungotten,  and  un- 
born. 
That  shall  have  cause  to  curse  the 

Dauphin's  scorn. 
But  this  lies  all  within  the  will  of 

God, 
To  whom  I  do  appeal ;  and  in  whose 

name. 
Tell  you  the  Dauphin,  I  am  coming 

on. 
To  venge  me  as  I  may,  and  to  put 

forth 
My  rightful  hand  in  a  well-hallowed 

cause. 
So  get  you  hence  in  peace ;-  and  tell 

the  Dauphin, 
His  jest  will  savor  but  of   shallow 

wit, 
When  thousands  weep,  more  than 

did  lau-gh  at  it.  — 
Convey  them  with  safe  conduct. — 

Fare  you  well. 

Shakspeare. 


HEROIC. 


211 


BATTLE  ON  ST.   CRISPIAN'S 
DAY. 

Westmoreland,  —  O  that  we   now 

had  here 
(Enter  King  Henry) 
But  one  ten  thousand  of  those  men 

in  England 
That  do  no  work  to-day ! 
K.  Henry.  —  What's  he  that  wishes 

so? 
My    cousin    Westmoreland  ?  —  No, 

my  fair  cousin : 
If  we  are  marked  to  die,    we   are 

enough 
To  do  our  country  loss;   and  if  to 

live, 
The  fewer  men,  the  greater  share  of 

honor. 
God's  will !    I  pray  thee,  wish  not 

one  man  more. 
By  Jove,  I  am  not  covetous  for  gold ; 
Nor  care  I  who  doth  feed  upon  my 

cost; 
It  yearns  me  not,  if  men  my  gar- 
ments wear : 
Such  outer  things  dwell  not  in  my 

desires  : 
But,  if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honor, 
I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 
No,  'faith,  my  coz,  wish  not  a  man 

from  England : 
God's  peace!    I  would  not  lose  so 

great  an  honor, 
As  one  man  more,  methinks,  would 

share  from  me. 
For  the  best  hope  I  have.     O,  do  not 

wish  one  more : 
Rather  proclaim   it,  Westmoreland, 

through  my  host, 
That  he  who  hath  no  stomach  to 

this  fight. 
Let  him  depart;  his  passport  shall 

be  made. 
And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his 

purse : 
We  would  not  die  in    that  man's 

company, 
That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with 

.  us. 
This    day  is   called— the    feast    of 

Crispian : 
He  that  outlives  this  day,  and  comes 

safe  home, 
Will  stand  on  tip-toe  when  this  day  is 

named. 
And    rouse   him    at    the    name    of 

Crispian : 


He  that  shall  live  this  day,  and  see 
old  age, 

Will  yearly  on    the  vigil  feast  his 
friends, 

And     say  —  To-morrow     is    Saint 
Crispian : 

Then  will  he  strip  his  sleeves,  and 
show  his  scars. 

And  say,   these  wounds  I  had  on 
Crisi:)ian's  day. 

Old  men  forget;    yet    all  shall  be 
forgot. 

But  he'll    remember,    with    advan- 
tages. 

What  feats  he  did  that  day:  then 
shall  our  names. 

Familiar  in  their  mouths  as  house- 
hold words,  — 

Harry  the  king,  Bedford,  and  Exeter, 

Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and 
Gloster,  — 

Be  in  their  flowing  cups  freshly  re- 
membered : 

This  story  shall  the  good  man  teach 
his  son; 

And  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  go 
by, 

From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  tha 
world. 

But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered : 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of 
brothers ; 

For  he,  to-day,  that  sheds  his  blood 
with  me. 

Shall  be  my  brother;  be  he  ne'er  so 
vile. 

This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition : 

And    gentlemen   in   England,   now- 
abed. 

Shall    think    themselves    accursed 
they  were  not  here, 

And   hold    their    manhood    cheap, 
while  any  speaks 

That   fought  with   us  upon   Saint 
Crispin's  day. 

Shakspeake. 


KING  RICHARD'S  SOLILOQUY. 

Bichard  III.  —  Now  is  the  winter 

of  our  discontent 
Made  glorious  summer  by  this  son 

of  York; 
And    all    the  clouds,  that  lowered 

upon  our  house. 
In  the  deep  bosom  of   the    ocean 

buried. 


212 


PAENASSUS. 


Now  are  our  brows  bound  with 
victorious  wreaths ; 

Our  bruised  arms  hung  up  for  mon- 
uments ; 

Our  stern  alarums  changed  to  merry 
meetings, 

Our  dreadful  marches  to  delightful 
measures. 

Grim-visaged  war  hath  smoothed 
his  wrinkled  front ; 

And  now,  —  instead  of  mounting 
barbed  steeds, 

To  fright  the  souls  of  fearful  adver- 
saries, — 

He  capers  nimbly  in  a  lady's  cham- 
ber, 

To  the  lascivious  pleasing  of  a  lute. 

But  I,  —  that  am  not  shaped  for 
sportive  tricks, 

ISTor  made  to  court  an  amorous  look- 
ing-glass ; 

I,  that  am  rudely  stamped,  and  want 
love's  majesty. 

To  strut  before  a  wanton  ambling 
nymph, 

I,  that  am  curtailed  of  this  fair 
proportion. 

Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling 
nature, 

Deformed,  unfinished,  sent  before 
my  time 

Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce 
half  made  up, 

And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashion- 
able 

That  dogs  bark  at  me  as  I  halt  by 
them ;  — 

Why  I,  in  this  weak  piping  time  of 
peace. 

Have  no  delight  to  pass  away  the 
time; 

Unless  to  spy  my  shadow  in  the  sun. 

And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity ; 

And  therefore,  since  I  cannot  prove 
a  lover, 

To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken 
days,  — 

I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain. 

And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these 
days,  — 

Plots  have  I  laid,  inductions  danger- 
'  ous, 

By  drunken  prophecies,  libels,  and 
dreams, 

To  set  my  brother  Clarence,  and  the 
king 

In  deadly  hate  the  one  against  the 
other : 


And,  if  King  Edward  be  as  true  and 
just 

As  I  am  subtle,  false,  and  treacher- 
ous, 

This  day  should  Clarence  closely  be 
mewed  up; 

About    a    prophecy,   which    says  — 
that  G 

Of    Edward's    heirs    the    murderer 
shall  be. 

Dive,  thoughts,  down  to  my  soul: 
here  Clarence  comes. 

Shakspeake. 


BOADICEA. 

When  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods. 

Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien. 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  cliief ; 

Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage  and  full  of  grief. 

"  Princess  ?  if  our  aged  eyes 
Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

'Tis  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

Rome  shall  perish :  write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt,  — 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorred. 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states ; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground: 
Hark !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates ! 

Other  Romans  shall  arise, 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name; 

Sounds,    not  arms,    shall    win    the 
prize. 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land. 

Armed    with    thunder,    clad    with 
wings. 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

Regions  Caesar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway; 
Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 

None  invincible  as  they." 


HEROIC. 


213 


Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride, 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow: 

Kushed  to  battle,  fought,  and  died ; 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians !  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due ; 
Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 

COWPER. 

BONDUCA. 

[Bonduca  the  British  queen,  taking 
occasion  from  a  defeat  of  the  Romans  to 
impeach  their  valor,  is  rebuked  by  Ca- 
ratac] 

Queen  Bonduca,  I  do  not  grieve 

your  fortune. 
If  I  grieve,  'tis  at  the  bearing  of 

your  fortunes ; 
You  put  too  much  wind  to  your  sail : 

discretion 
And  hardy  valor  are  the  twins  of 

honor. 
And  nursed  together,  make  a  con- 
queror ; 
Divided,  but  a  talker.     'Tis  a  truth. 
That  Rome  has  fled  before  us  twice, 

and  routed ;  — 
A  truth  we  ought  to  crown  the  gods 

for,  lady, 
And  not  our  tongues. 
You  call  the  Romans  fearful,  fleeing 

Romans, 
And  Roman  girls :  — * 
Does  this  become  a  doer?  are  they 

such  ? 
Where  is  your  conquest  then  ? 
Wby  are  your  altars  crowned  with 

wreaths  of  flowers, 
The  beast  with  gilt  horns  waiting 

for  the  fire  ? 
The  holy  Druides  composing  songs 
Of  everlasting  life  to  Victory? 
Why  are  the'se  triumphs,  lady?  for 

a  May-game  ? 
For  hunting  a  poor  herd  of  wretched 

Romans  ? 
Is  it  no  more  ?  shut  up  your  temples, 

Britons, 
And  let  the  husbandman  redeem  his 

heifers ; 


Put  out  our  holy  fires;  no  timbrel 

ring ; 
Let's  home  and  sleep ;  for  such  great 

overthrows 
A  candle  burns  too  bright  a  sacrifice; 
A  glow-worm's  tail  too  full  a  flame. 
You  say,   I  doat    upon    these    Ro- 
mans ;  — 
Witness  these  wounds,  I  do;  they 

were  fairly  given : 
I  love  an  enemy,  I  was  born  a  sol- 
dier; 
And  he  that  in  the  head  of  's  troop 

defies  me, 
Rending  my  manly  body  with  his 

sword, 
I  make  a  mistress.     Yellow-tressed 

Hymen 
Ne'er  tied  a    longing    virgin    with 

more  joy. 
Than  I  am  married  to  that  man  that 

wounds  me : 
And  are  not  all  these  Roman  ?     Ten 

struck  battles 
I  sucked  these  honored  scars  from, 

and  all  Roman. 
Ten  years  of  bitter  nights  and  heavy 

marches. 
When  many  a  frozen  storm   sung 

through  my  cuirass, 
And  made  it  doubtful  whether  that 

or  I 
Were    the    more     stubborn    metal, 

have  I  wrought  through, 
And  all  to  try  these  Romans.     Ten 

times  a  night 
I  have  swum  the  rivers,  when  the 

stars  of  Rome 
Shot  at  me  as  I  floated,  and  the  bil- 
lows 
Tumbled  their  watery  ruins  on  my 

shoulders, 
Charging  my    battered    sides    with 

troops  of  agues. 
And    still    to    try    these    Romans; 

whom  I  found 
As  ready,   and    as    full    of    that    I 

brought, 
(Wliich  was  not  fear  nor  flight,)  as 

valiant. 
As    vigilant,    as    wise,    to    do   and 

suffer. 
Ever  advanced  as  forward  as    the 

Britons ; 
Have  I  not  seen  these  Britons 
Run,  run,  Bonduca?  —  not  the  quick 

rack  swifter ; 
The  virgin  from  the  hated  ravisher 


214 


PAENASSUS. 


Not  half  so  fearful;  —  not  a  flight 

drawn  home, 
A  round  stone  from  a  sling,  a  lover's 

wish. 
E'er  made  that  haste  they  have.    By 

heavens ! 
I  have  seen  these  Britons  that  you 

magnify. 
Bun  as   they  would    have  out-run 

time,  and  roaring,  — 
Basely  for  mercy,  roaring ;  the  light 

shadows. 
That  in  a  thought  scour  o'er  the 

fields  of  corn, 
Halted  on  crutches  to  them.     Yes, 

Bonduca, 
I  have  seen  thee  run  too,  and  thee, 

Nennius ; 
Yea,   run   apace,   both;  then  when 

Penyus, 
The  Roman  girl,  cut  through  your 

armed  carts. 
And  drove  them   headlong    on    ye 

down  the  hill ;  — 
Then     when    he     hunted    ye    like 

Britain  foxes. 
More  by  the  scent  than  sight :  then 

did  I  see 
These  valiant  and  approved  men  of 

Britain, 
Like  boding  owls,  creep  into  tods  of 

ivy, 
And  hoot  their  fears  to  one  another 

nightly. 
I  fled  too. 
But  not  so  fast;    your   jewel  had 

been  lost  then, 
Young  Hengo  there ;  he  trasht  me, 

Nennius : 
For  when  your  fears  outrun  him, 

then  stept  I, 
And  in  the  head  of  all  the  Romans' 

fury 
Took  him,  and,  with  my  tough  belt 

to  my  back, 
I  buckled  him;  —  behind  him,  my 

sure  shield ;  — 
And  then  I  followed.     If   I  say  I 

fought 
Five  times  in  bringing  off  this  bud  of 

Britain, 
I  lie  not,  Nennius.     Neither  had  ye 

heard 
Me  speak  this,  or  ever  seen  the  child 

more, 
But  that  the  son  of  Virtue,  Penyus, 
Seeing  me  steer  through  all  these 

storms  of  danger, 


My    helm    still    on    my    head,    my 

sword  my  prow. 
Turned  to  my  foe  my  face,  he  cried 

out  nobly, 
*'  Go,  Briton,  bear  thy  lion's  whelp 

off  safely ; 
Thy    manly    sword    has    ransomed 

thee :  grow  strong. 
And  let  me  meet  thee   once  again 

in  arms: 
Then    if    thou    stand' st,    thou    art 

mine."     I  took  his  offer, 
And  here  I  am  to  honor  him. 

There's  not  a  blow  we  gave  since 

Julius  landed, 
That  was  of  strength  and  worth,  but 

like  records 
They  file  to  after-ages.    Our  Registers 
The  Romans  are,  for  noble  deeds  of 

honor; 
And  shall  we  burn  their  mentions 

with  upbraidings  ? 
Had  we  a  difference  with  some  petty 

Isle, 
Or  with  our    neighbors,   lady,    for 

our  landmarks. 
The  taking  in  of  some    rebellious 

Lord, 
Or  making  a  head  against  commo- 
tions, 
After  a  day  of  blood,  peace  might 

be  argued : 
But    where     we     grapple    for    the 

ground  we  live  on, 
The  Liberty  we  hold  as  dear  as  life. 
The    gods    we    worship,    and    next 

those,  our  honors. 
And  with  those  swords  that  know  no 

end  of  battle : 
Those  men  beside  themselves  allow 

no  neighbor ; 
Those  minds  that,  where  the  day  is, 

claim  inheritance ; 
And  where  the  sun  makes  ripe  the 

fruits,  their  harvest ; 
And  where  they  march,  but  measure    > 

out  more  ground 
To  add  to  Borne,  and  here  in  the 

bowels  on  us ; 
It  must  not  be ;  no,  as  they  are  our 

foes, 
And  those  that  must  be  so  until  we 

tire  'em, 
Let's  use  the  peace  of  Honor,  that's 

fair  dealing; 
But  in  our  ends,  our  swords. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcheb. 


HEROIC. 


215 


THE  BARD. 

I.  1. 

"  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  king! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ; 
Though  fanned  by  Conquest's  crim- 
son wing, 
They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail, 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  Tyrant,  shall 
avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  night- 
ly fears, 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cam- 
bria's tears!" 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the 
crested  pride 
Of  the  first  Edward  scattered  wild 
dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of   Snowdon's 
shaggy  side 
He  wound  with  toilsome  march 
his  long  array. 
Stout     Glo'ster     stood     aghast     in 

speechless  trance : 
*'To  arms!"    cried  Mortimer,   and 
couched  his  quivering  lance. 

I.  2. 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 

Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming 
flood. 
Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 

With  haggard  eyes  the  poet  stood ; 

(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 

Streamed,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  trou- 
bled air). 

And    with    a  master's    hand,    and 
prophet's  fire. 

Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 
"  Hark,  how  each  giant-oak,  and 
desert  cave. 

Sighs   to  the  torrent's  awful  voice 
beneath ! 

O'er  thee,  oh  King!  their  hundred 
arms  they  wave. 
Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  mur- 
murs breathe ; 

Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal 
day, 

To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft 
Llewellyn's  lay. 

I.  3. 

"  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 
That  hushed  the  stormy  main : 


Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy- 
bed: 
Mountains !  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made    huge    Plinlimmon    bow    his 
cloud-topped  head. 
On    dreary    Arvon's    shore    they 
lie, 
Smeared    with    gore,   and    ghastly 

pale: 
Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens 
sail; 
The  famished  eagle  screams,  and 
passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful 
art. 
Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these 
sad  eyes. 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm 
my  heart. 
Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  coun- 
try's cries  — 
No  more    I    weep.     They    do    not 
sleep. 
On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 
I  see  them  sit,  they  linger  yet. 

Avengers  of  their  native  land : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they 

join. 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the 
tissue  of  thy  line. 

II.  1. 

"Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the 
woof. 

The  winding  sheet  of  Edward's  race. 
Give     ample    room,    and     verge 
enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 

Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night, 

When    Severn    shall    re-echo    with 
affright 

The  shrieks  of  death,  through  Berl^- 
ley's  roof  that  ring, 

Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king ! 
She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelent- 
ing fangs. 

That    tear' St    the    bowels    of     thy 
mangled  mate, 
From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy 
country  hangs 

The  scourge  of  heaven.    What  ter- 
rors round  him  wait ! 

Amazement  in  his  van,  with  flight 
combined, 

And  sorrow's  faded  form,  and  soli- 
tude behind. 


216 


PATINASSUS. 


n.  2. 

"  Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord ! 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies ! 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 

Is  the  sable  warrior  fled  ? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among 

the  dead. 
The    swarm,  that    in  thy  noontide 

beam  were  born  ? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the 
zephyr  blows, 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure 
realm 
In   gallant   trim    the  gilded  vessel 


Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure 
at  the  helm ; 

Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirl- 
wind's sway, 

That,  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects 
his  evening  prey. 

II.  3. 

"  Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare ; 
Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share 
the  feast : 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 
Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled 
guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray. 
Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse  ? 
Long    years  of    havoc  urge  their 
destined  course, 
And  through  the  kindred  squadrons 
mow  their  way. 
Ye    towers  of    Julius,    London's 
lasting  shame, 
With  many  a   foul    and   midnight 
murder  fed. 
Revere    his    consort's    faith,    his 
father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy 

head. 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 
Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we 
spread : 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant-gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  ac- 
cursed loom, 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and 
ratify  his  doom. 


III.  1. 

"  Edward,  lo !  to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is 

spun. ) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 
(The  web    is   wove.     The  work  is 

done.) 
Stay,  oh  stay !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unblessed,  unpitied,  here 

to  mourn : 
In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the 

western  skies, 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But    oh!   what    solemn    scenes    on 

Snowdon's  height 
Descending    slow  their   glittering 

skirts  unroll  ? 
Visions  of   glory,  spare  my  aching 

sight ! 
Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my 

soul! 
No  more    our  long-lost    Arthur  we 

bewail. 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings,  Britan- 
nia's issue,  hail! 

III.  2. 

"  Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold, 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear ; 
And  gorgeous  dames,  and  states- 
men old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine ! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton- 
line  ; 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding 

face. 
Attempered  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble 
in  the  air, 
What  strains   of   vocal  transport 

round  her  play 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Talies- 

sin,  hear; 
They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate 
thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring  as 

she  sings, 
Waves    in    the  eye  of    heaven  her 
many-colored  wings. 

III.  3. 

"  The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  war,  and  faithful  love. 
And  truth   severe,   by  fairy  fiction 
drest. 


HEROIC. 


217 


In  buskined  measures  move 
Pale  grief,  and  pleasing  pain, 
With  horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing 
breast. 
A  voice,  as  of  the  cherub-choir. 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear ; 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my 
ear. 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond    impious  man,  think' st  thou 
yon  sanguine  cloud, 
Kaised  by  thy  breath,  has  quenched 
the  orb  of  day  ? 
To-morrow  he  repairs    the    golden 
flood, 
And  warms  the  nations  with  re- 
doubled ray. 
Enough  for  me ;  with  joy  I  see 
The    different     doom    our    fates 
assign. 
Be  thine  despair,  and  sceptred  care ; 
To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine." 
He   spoke,  and  headlong  from  the 

mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged 
to  endless  night. 

Gray. 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING. 

WIZARD.  —  LOCHIEL. 

Wizard.  —  Lochiel !  Lochiel,  be- 
ware of  the  day 

When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee 
in  battle  array ! 

For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on 
my  sight. 

And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scat- 
tered in  fight : 

They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their 
kingdom  and  crown ; 

Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample 
them  down ! 

Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insult- 
ing the  slain. 

And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are 
trod  to  the  plain. 

But  hark !  through  the  fast-flashing 
lightning  of  war. 

What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic 
and  far  ? 

'Tis  thine.  Oh  GlenuUin!  whose 
bride  shall  await. 

Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all 
night  at  the  gate. 


A  steed  comes  at  morning :  no  rider 
is  there; 

But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of 
despair. 

Weep,  Albin !  to  death  and  captivity 
led! 

Oh  weep !  but  thy  tears  cannot  num- 
ber the  dead : 

For  a  merciless  sword  on, Culloden 
shall  wave, 

Culloden !  that  reeks  with  the  blood 
of  the  brave. 

Lochiel.  —  Go,  preach  to  the  cow> 
ard,  thou  death-telling  seer ! 

Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  ap- 
pear. 

Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  waver- 
ing sight ! 

This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms 
of  fright. 

Wizard. — Ha!  laugh' st  thou,  Lo- 
chiel, my  vision  to  scorn? 

Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy 
plume  shall  be  torn ! 

Say,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exultingly 
forth. 

From  his  home,  in  the  dark  rolling 
clouds  of  the  north  ? 

Lo!  the  death-shot  of  foemen  out- 
speeding,  he  rode 

Companionless,  bearing  destruction 
abroad ; 

But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his 
havoc  on  high ! 

Ah!  home  let  him  speed  —  for  the 
spoiler  is  nigh. 

Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?  Why 
shoot  to  the  blast 

Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the 
firmament  cast  ? 

'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all 
dreadfully  driven 

From  his  eyry,  that  beacons  the 
darkness  of  heaven. 

Oh,  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in 
might. 

Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battle- 
ment's height, 

Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast 
and  to  burn ; 

Return  to  thy  dwelling!  all  lonely 
return ! 

For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall 
mark  where  it  stood, 

And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her 
famishing  brood. 


218 


PAKNASSUS. 


Lochiel. — False  wizard,  avaunt !  I 
have  marshalled  my  clan : 

Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their 
bosoms  are  one ! 

They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their 
blood  and  their  breath, 

And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  har- 
vest of  death. 

Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's 
steed  to  the  shock ! 

Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a 
wave  on  the  rock ! 

But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to 
his  cause. 

When  Albin  her  claymore  indig- 
nantly draws ; 

When  her  bonnetted  chieftains  to 
victory  crowd, 

Clanranald  the  dauntless,  and  Mo- 
ray the  proud ; 

All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tar- 
tan array  — 

Wizard.  —  Lochiel,  Lochiel,  be- 
ware of  the  day ! 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight 
I  may  seal, 

But  man  cannot  cover  what  God 
would  reveal : 

'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mys- 
tical lore. 

And  coming  events  cast  their  sha- 
dow before. 

I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes 
shall  ring 

With  the  bloodhounds,  that  bark  for 
thy  fugitive  king. 

Lo!  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the 
vials  of  wrath, 

Behold ;  where  he  flies  on  his  deso- 
late path ! 

Now,  in  darkness  and  billows,  he 
sweeps  from  my  sight : 

Else!  rise!  ye  wild  tempests,  and 
cover  his  flight! 

'Tis  finished.  Their  thunders  are 
hushed  on  the  moors ; 

CuUoden  is  lost,  and  my  country 
deplores ; 

But  where  is  the  iron-bound  pris- 
oner ?    Where  ? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in 
despair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  ban- 
ished, forlorn, 

Like  a  limb  from  his  countiy  cast 
bleeding  and  torn  ? 

Ah,  no !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near ; 


The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black 
is  the  bier ; 

His  death-bell  is  tolling ;  oh !  mercy, 
dispel 

Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit 
to  tell ! 

Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quiv- 
ering limbs. 

And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in 
agony  swims. 

Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze 
at  his  feet, 

Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere 
it  ceases  to  beat. 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poi- 
son the  gale  — 

Lochiel. — Down,  soothless  insult- 

er !  I  trust  not  the  tale  : 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should 

be  strewed  in  their  gore. 
Like    ocean-weeds    heaped    on    the 

surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,   untainted   by  flight  or  by 

chains, 
Wliile  the  kindling    of   life  in  his 

bosom  remains. 
Shall  victor  exult,   or  in  death  be 

laid  low. 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his 

feet  to  the  foe ! 
And  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his 

name. 
Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the 

death-bed  of  fame. 

Campbell. 


DEFIANCE. 

The  unearthly  voices  ceased. 
And  the  heavy  sound  was  still ; 
It  died  on  the  river's  breast. 
And  it  died  on  the  side  of  the  hill; 
But  round  Lord  David's  tower 
The  sound  still  floated  near, 
For  it  rung  in  the  Lady's  bower, 
And  it  rung  in  the  Lady's  ear; 
She  raised  her  stately  head, 
And  her  heart  throbbed  high  with 

pride,  — 
"  Your  mountains  shall  bend, 
And  your  streams  shall  ascend. 
Ere      Margaret     be    our    foeman's 

bride." 
Sib  Walter  Scott:   Lay  of  Last 

Minstrel. 


HEROIC. 


219 


BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT    BRUCE' S    ADDRESS    TO    HIS 
ARMY. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled ; 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  af ten  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victorie. 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lower ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power : 
Chains  and  slaverie ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa'  ? 

Let  him  follow  me ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 

But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow! 

Let  us  do,  or  die ! 
Burns. 


CROMWELL  A:N^D  KING 
CHARLES. 

'Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  force  of  angry  heaven's  flame; 

And  if  we  would  speak  true, 

Much  to  the  man  is  due, 
Who  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
He  lived  reserved  and  austere. 

As  if  his  highest  plot 

To  plant  the  bergamot, 
Could  by  industrious  valor  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  Time, 

And  cast  the  kingdoms  old, 

Into  another  mould. 
Wliat  field  of  all  the  civil  war. 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar  ? 

And  Hampton  shows  what  part 

He  had  of  wiser  art ; 
Where,   twining  subtile  fears  with 
hope, 


He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope, 

That    Charles     himself     might 
chase 

To  Carisbrook's  narrow  case ; 
That  thence  the  royal  actor  borne, 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn. 

While  round  the  armed  bands, 

Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 
He  nothing  common  did,  or  mean, 
Upon  that  memorable  scene. 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try ; 
Nor  called  the  gods,  with  vulgar  spite, 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right; 

But  bowed  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

MARVEIiL. 


THE  VISION. 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 
Where  the  wa' -flower  scents  the 
dewy  air. 
Where  the  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy 
bower. 
And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her 
care: 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still. 
The  stars  they  shot  alaug  the  sky ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 
And  the  distant-echoing  glens  re- 
ply- 

The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path, 
Was  rushing  by  the  ruined  wa's. 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 
Whose  distant  roaring  swells  and 
fa's. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming 
forth 

Her  lights,  wi'  hissing  eerie  din ; 
Athort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift, 

Like  fortune's  favors,  tint  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I  turned  mine 
eyes, 

And  by  the  moonbeam  shook  to  see 
A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise. 

Attired  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

Had  I  a  statue  been  o'  stane. 
His  daurin'  look  had  daunted  me ; 

And  on  his  bonnet  graved  was  plain, 
The  sacred  posy  —  Libertie  ! 

Burns. 


220 


PARNASSUS. 


SCOTLAND. 

I  MIND  it  weel,  in  early  date, 
Wlien  I  was  beardless,  young,  and 
blate. 

And  first  could  thresh  the  barn ; 
Or  baud  a  yokin'  at  the  pleugh ; 
An'  though  f orf oughten  sair  eneugh, 

Yet  unco  proud  to  learn ! 

Even  then,  a  wish  (I  mind  its  power), 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast  — 
That  I  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake 
Some    usefu'    plan    or   book  could 
make. 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 
The    rough    burr-thistle    spreading 
wide 
Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turned  the  weedin'-heuk  aside, 
An'  spared  the  symbol  dear. 

Burns. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 
Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown. 
And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly 

shone;  * 
By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 
In  a  bold  determined  hand, 
And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on,  — 

Like  leviathans  afloat. 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line ; 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the 

chime : 
As  they  drifted  on  their  path. 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 
For  a  time.  — 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 
To  anticipate  the  scene ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 
O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 
"Hearts  of  oak,"  our  captains  cried; 

when  each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread    a    death-shade   round    the 

ships. 


Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun.  — 

Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ;  — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly 

boom:  — 
Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail. 
As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail ; 
Or,  in  conflagration  pale. 
Light  the  gloom.  — 

Outspoke  the  victor  then. 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave, 

"  Ye  are  brothers !  ye  are  men ! 

And  we  conquer  biit  to  save :  — 

So  peace  instead    of    death    let  us 

bring. 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet. 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  king."  — 

Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief. 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief. 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 
As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from 

the  day ; 
"Wliile  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 
Wliere  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away.  — 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze. 
While  the  wine  cup  shines  in  light; 
And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  up- 
roar. 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep. 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep 
Elsinore !  — 

Brave  hearts !  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died,  — 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou: 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er 

their  grave ! 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls. 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 
Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave!  — 

Campbell. 


HEROIC. 


221 


YE  MARINERS   OF    ENGLAND. 

Ye  mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 

Wliose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand 

years 
The  battle  and  the  breeze : 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again, 
To  match  another  foe ! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  tempests  blow; 
\yiiile  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  spirit  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ! 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame. 

And  ocean  was  their  grave ; 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell. 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow. 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her   march    is  o'er   the    mountain 

waves. 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 
She  quells  the  flood  below,  — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 
"When  the  stormy  tempests  blow ; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart. 
And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors. 
Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  tlie  fame  of  your  name. 
When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 
And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 
Cajnipbell. 


THOUGHT  OF    A    BRITON    ON 

THE  SUBJUGATION  OF 

SWITZERLAND. 

Two  voices  are  there,  —  one  is  of 

the  sea, 
One    of    the    mountains,  —  each    a 

mighty  voice ; 


In  both  from  age  to  age,  thou  didst 

rejoice. 
They  were  thy  chosen  music.  Lib- 
erty! 
There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy 

glee 
Thou  foughtst  against  him,  but  hast 

vainly  striven ; 
Thou    from    thy    Alpine    holds    at 

length  art  driven. 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard 

by  thee. 
Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been 

bereft : 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which 

still  is  left ; 
For,  high-souled  maid,  what  sorrow 

would  it  be 
That  mountain  floods  should  thunder 

as  before, 
Aiid  ocean  bellow  from  his   rocky 

shore. 
And  neither  awful  voice  be  heard 

by  thee ! 

WOBDSWORTH. 


SONNET. 

Alas  !  what  boots  the  long,  laborious 

quest 
Of  moral  prudence,  sought  through 

good  and  ill; 
Or   pains    abstruse,   to    elevate  the 

will, 
And  lead  us  on  to  that  transcendent 

rest 
Wliere  every  passion  shall  the  sway 

attest 
Of  Reason,  seated  on  her  sovereign 

hill  ? 
What  is  it  but  a  vain  and  curious 

skill. 
If    sapient    Germany  must  lie    de- 
pressed 
Beneath    the    brutal    sword?    Her 

haughty  schools 
Shall  blush;  and  may  not  we  with 

sorrow  say, 
A  few  strong  instincts   and  a  few 

plain  rules, 
Among  the  herdsmen  of  the  Alps, 

have  wrought 
More  for  mankind  at  this  unhappy 

day. 
Than  all  the  pride  of  intellect  and 

thought. 

WORDSWOKTH. 


222 


PARNASSUS. 


SCHILL. 

Brave  Schill!  by  death  delivered, 

take  thy  flight 
From  Prussia's  timid  region.     Go, 

and  rest 
With  lieroes,  'mid  tlie  Islands  of  the 

Blest, 
Or  in  the  fields  of  empyrean  light. 
A  meteor  wert  thou  crossing  a  dark 

night ; 
Yet    shall    thy    name,   conspicuous 

and  sublime, 
Stand  in  the  spacious  firmament  of 

time. 
Fixed  as  a  star:  such  glory  is  thy 

right. 
Alas !  it  may  not  be :  for  earthly  fame 
Is    fortune's    frail    dependent;    yet 

there  lives 
A  Judge,  who,   as  man  claims  by 

merit,  gives ; 
To    whose    all-pondering    mind     a 

noble  aim, 
Faithfully  kept,  is  as  a  noble  deed ; 
In  whose  pure  sight  all  virtue  doth 

succeed. 

WOKDSWORTH. 


WATERLOO. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by 

night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gath- 
ered then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and 

bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women 

and  brave  men : 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily; 

and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous 

swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which 

spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage 

bell; 
But  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes 
like  a  rising  knell  I 

Did  ye  not  hear  it?  —  No;  'twas 

but  the  wind. 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony 

street : 
On  with    the    dance!   let    joy  be 

unconfined ; 


No  sleep  till  morn,  when  youth  and 

pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with 

flying  feet. 
But,    hark!  —  that    heavy    sound 

breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would 

repeat. 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than 

before ! 
Arm !  arm !  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  can- 
non's opening  roar! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that 

high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain: 

he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the 

festival. 
And  caught  its  tone  with  death's 

prophetic  ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he 

deemed  it  near. 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that 

peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a 

bloody  bier. 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood 

alone  could  quell: 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  fore- 
most fighting,  fell. 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying 

to  and  fro. 
And    gathering    tears,  and  trem- 
blings of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which,  but  an 

hour  ago. 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own 

loveliness ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings, 

such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts, 

and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated:. 

who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those 

mutual  eyes, 
Since    upon    night  so    sweet    such 
awful  morn  could  rise  ? 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot 
haste :  the  steed. 

The  mustering  squadron,  and  the 
clattering  car, 

Went  pouring  forward  with  impet- 
uous speed, 


HEROIC. 


223: 


And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks 

of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal 

afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming 

drum 
Roused    up    the    soldier    ere   the 

morning  star ; 

Wliile  thronged  the  citizens  with 

terror  dumb, 

Or  whispering,  with  white  lips,  *'  The 

foe !    They  come !  they  come ! ' ' 

Bybon. 


m  THE  FIGHT. 

Thy  voice  is  heard  through  rolling 
drums 
That    beat    to    battle    where    he 
stands ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands : 

A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow. 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee ; 

The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe. 

And   strikes  him  dead  for  thine 

and  thee. 

Texnyson^^. 


MURAT. 

Theee,   where  death's  brief    pang 

was  quickest. 
And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  thickest, 
Strewed  beneath  the  advancing  ban- 
ner 
Of  the  eagles'  burning  crest  — 
There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her 
Victory  beaming  from  her  breast ! 
"Wliile  the  broken  line  enlarging 
Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain :  — 
There  be  sure  Murat  was  charging ! 
There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again ! 
Bykon. 


HOHEXLINDEN. 

Ox  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  the  drum  beat,  at    dead  of 
night, 


Commarfding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder 

riven. 
Then    rushed  the    steed   to   battle 

driven. 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But    redder    yet     that    light    shall 

glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  lurid  sun 
Can  pierce   the  war-clouds,   rolling 

dun, 
Wliere  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  wave ! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Ah!    few    shall   part  where    many 
meet! 

The  snow  shall  be  their  winding- 
sheet. 

And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 

Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

Campbell. 


SOX>raT. 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the 

flood 
Of  British  freedom,  which,  to  the 

open  sea 
Of  the  world's    praise,  from    dark 

antiquity 
Hath  flowed,  "  with  pomp  of  waters 

un  withstood," 
Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a 

mood 
Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary 

bands. 
That  this  most  famous  stream  in 

bogs  and  sands 
Should  perish,  and  to  evil  and  to  good 


224 


PAENASSUS. 


Be  lost  forever.     In  our  halFs  is  hung 
Armory  of  the  invincible  knights  of 

old: 
We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak 

the  tongue 
That  Shakspeare  spake  —  the  faith 

and  morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held.     In  every  thing 

we  are  sprung 
Of  Earth's    first  blood,  have  titles 

manifold. 

Wordsworth. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE 
PORTS. 

A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  British 
Channel ; 
The  day  was  just  begun ; 
And  through  the  window-panes,  on 
floor  and  panel, 
Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rip- 
pling pennon, 
And  the  white  sails  of  ships ; 
And,  from   the  frowning    rampart, 
the  black  cannon 
Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich    and  Romney,  Hastings, 

Hithe,  and  Dover, 

Were  all  alert  that  day. 

To    see    the    French    war-steamers 

speeding  over 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant 
lions. 
Their  cannon,  through  the  night. 
Holding  their  breath,  had  watched 
in  grim  defiance 
The  seacoast  opposite ; 

And  now  they  roared,  at  drum-beat, 
from  their  stations 
On  every  citadel ; 
Each  answering  each,  with  morning 
salutations, 
That  all  was  well ! 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up 
the  burden, 
Replied  the  distant  forts  — 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the 
warden 
And  lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports, 


Him  shall  no    sunshine    from    the 
fields  of  azure, 
No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 
No  morning    gun    from  the    black 
forts'  embrasure, 
Awaken  with  their  call ! 

No    more,   surveying  with    an    eye 
impartial 
The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  field- 
marshal 
Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single 
warrior. 
In  sombre  harness  mailed. 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the 
Destroyer, 
The  rampart  wall  has  scaled ! 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the 

sleeper,  — 

The  dark  and  silent  room ; 

And,   as    he  entered,  darker  grew, 

and  deeper 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley,  or  dis- 
semble, 
But  smote  the  warden  hoar  — 
Ah!   what  a  blow!   that  made  all 
England  tremble 
And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  can- 
non waited. 
The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead,  — 
Nothing   in    Nature's    aspect    inti- 
mated 
That  a  great  man  was  dead ! 

Longfellow. 


THE  LOST  LEADER. 


Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left 

us; 
Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his 

coat; 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune 

bereft  us. 
Lost  all  the  others  she    lets    us 

devote. 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled 

him  out  silver, 


HEROIC. 


225 


So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little 
allowed. 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his 
service ! 
Rags  —  were     they     purple,     his 
heart  had  been  proud : 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed 
him,  honored  him, 
Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent 
eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught 
his  clear  accents. 
Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and 
to  die ! 
Shakspeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was 
for  us, 
Burns,  Shelley,   were  with  us, — 
they  watch  from  their  graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and 
the  freemen ; 
He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the 
slaves ! 


n. 


•not 


We  shall   march    prospering, 
through  his  presence ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from 
his  lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done  — while  he  boasts 
his  quiescence, 
Still  bidding    crouch    whom    the 
rest  bade  aspire. 
Blot  out  his  name,   then, — record 
one  lost  soul  more, 
One  task  more  declined,  one  more 
foot-path  uiitrod, 
One  more  triumph  for  devils,  and 
sorrow  for  angels. 
One    wrong    more    to    man,    one 
more  insult  to  God ! 
Life's  night  begins;  let  him  never 
come  back  to  us ! 
There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation, 
and  pain, 
Forced    praise    on    our    part, — the 
glimmer  of  twilight, 
Never    glad    confident    morning 
again ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught 
him,  —  strike  gallantly. 
Aim  at  our  heart  ere  we  pierce 
through  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowl- 
edge and  wait  us. 
Pardoned  in  Heaven,  the  first  by 
the  throne ! 

Robert  Browning. 


Westward  the   course  of  Empire 

takes  its  way. 
The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close   the  drama  with 

the  day : 
Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 
Bishop  George  Berkeley. 


ENTRANCE  OF  COLUMBUS 
INTO  BARCELONA. 

Lo !  on  his  far-resounding  path 

Sink  crucifix  and  crown. 
And  from  high  tower  and  balcony 

The  light  of  Spain  looks  down,  — 
For  Beauty's  dark,  dark  virgin  eyes 

Gleam  ceaseless  round  him  now, 
As  stars  from  still  upheaving  skies 

Would  new-born  from  the  waves 
arise 
On  his  advancing  prow. 

Grenville  Mellen. 


INDIANS. 

Alas  !  for  them,  their  day  is  o'er, 
Their  fires  are  out  on  hill  and  shore ; 
No  more  for  them  the    wild    deer 

bounds. 
The    plough    is    on   their   hunting 

grounds ; 
The  pale  man's  axe  rings  through 

their  woods. 
The  pale  man's  sail  skims  o'er  their 

floods ; 
Their  pleasant  springs  are  dry ; 
Their    children,  —  look,    by    power 

opprest. 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  the  west, 
Their  children  go  to  die. 

Charles  Sprague. 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PIL- 
GRIM FATHERS  IN  NEW 
ENGLAND. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rockbound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed. 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 
The  hills  and  waters  o'er. 

When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their 
bark 
On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 


220 


PARNASStJS. 


Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 
They,  the  true-hearted,  came ; 

Not   with  the  roll  of  the    stirring 
drums, 
And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame. 


Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear;  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert 

gloom 
•    With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 


Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 
And    the    stars    heard,    and    the 
sea: 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim 
woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free ! 


The  ocean  eagle  soared 
From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's 
foam : 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest 
roared, — 
This  was  their  welcome  home ! 


There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 
Amidst  that  pilgrim  band :  — 

Why    had    they    come    to    wither 
there, 
Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 


There  was  woman's  fearless  eye. 
Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 

There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely 
high, 
And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 


What  sought  they  thus  afar? 
Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils    of 

war?  — 
They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine ! 


Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod : 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there 
they  found,  — 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 

BOemans. 


GEORGE  WASHINGT0:N. 

By  broad  Potomac's  silent  shore 
Better  than  Trajan  lowly  lies, 

Gilding  her  green  declivities 
With  glory  now  and  evermore ; 

Art  to  his  fame  no  aid  hath  lent ; 
His  country  is  his  monument. 

Anon. 

BUNKER  HILL. 

Now    deeper    roll    the    maddening 
drums. 

The  mingling  host  like  Ocean  heaves, 

Wliile  from  the  midst  a  horrid  wail- 
ing comes, 

And  high  above  the  fight  the  lonely 
bugle  grieves. 

Gkenville  Mellen. 


OLD  IRONSIDES. 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high. 
And  many  an    eye  has  danced  to 
see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar: 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 

Her   deck,   once  red   with  heroes' 
blood. 
Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the 
flood. 
And  waves  were  white  below, 
No    more    shall    feel    the    victor's 
tread, 
Or  know  the  conquered  knee : 
The    harpies    of    the    shore    shall 
pluck 
The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

O  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ! 
Her    thunders    shook    the    mighty 
deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave : 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail. 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


HEROIC. 


227 


ICHABOD! 

So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  with- 
drawn 

Which  once  he  wore ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile  him  not,  —  the  tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And    pitying  teairs,   not  scorn  and 
wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

Oh !  dumb  be  passion,  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn!  would  the  angels  laugh,  to 
mark 
A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,    down     the    endless 
dark. 
From  hope  and  heaven ! 

Let  not  the  land,  once  proud  of  him, 

Insult  him  now. 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his 
dim 

Dishonored  brow. 


But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 


Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  nought 

Save  power  remains,  — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought. 

Still  strong  in  chains. 


All  else  is  gone;  from  those  great 
eyes 

The  soul  has  fled : 
Wlien  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies. 

The  man  is  dead ! 

Then  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze. 

And  hide  the  shame ! 

Whittler. 


GREETINO  TO  "THE  GEORGE 
GRISWOLD." 

[The  ship  which  bore  to  the  Mersey  the 
contribution  of  the  United  States  to  the 
relief  of  Lancashire.] 

Before  thy  stem  smooth  seas  were 
curled. 
Soft  winds  thy  sails  did  move. 
Good  ship,  that  from  the  Western 
world 
Bore  freight  of  brothers'  love. 

'Twixt  starving  here   and  thriving 
there, 

When  wrath  flies  to  and  fro. 
Till  all  seems  hatred  everywhere. 

How  fair  thy  white  wings  show ! 

O'er  the  great  seas  thy  keel  ploughed 
through 
Good  ships  have  borne  the  chain 
That  should  have  knit  old  world  and 
new 
Across  the  weltering  main. 

The  chain  was  borne,  —  one  kindly 
wave 
Of  speech  pulsed  through  its  coil ; 
Then  dumb    and  dead    in    ocean's 
grave 
Lay  hope  and  cost  and  toil. 

But   thou,  good    ship,    again   hast 
brought 
O'er  these  wide  waves  of  blue, 
The     chain    of    kindly   word    and 
thought 
To  link  those  worlds  anew. 

Punch. 


JOHN   BROWN   OF    OSAWA- 
TOMIE. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  TIMES. 

[Containing  ye  True  History  of  ye  Great 

Virginia  Fright.] 

John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled,  like 
a  steadfast  Yankee  farmer. 
Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons  — 
all  stalwart  men  of  might. 
There  he  spoke  aloud  for  Freedom, 
and    the    Border-strife    grew 
warmer. 
Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling, 
in  his  absence,  in  the  night ; 


228 


PAENASSUS. 


And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Came  homeward  in  the  morning — to 
find  his  house  burned  down. 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle,  and 
boldly  fought  for  Freedom ; 
Smote  from  border  unto  border  the 
fierce,  invading  band ; 
And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed  — 
so    might    Heaven    help  and 
speed  'em!  — 
They  would  save  those  grand  old 
prairies  from  the  curse  that 
blights  the  land ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Said,  "  Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us !" 
and   he    shoved    his    ramrod 
down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men ;  and 
they  labored  day  and  even. 
Saving    Kansas    from    its    peril, 
and  their  very  lives    seemed 
charmed ; 
Till  the  ruffians  killed  one  son,  in 
the  blessed  light  of  Heaven  — 
In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him, 
as  he  journeyed  all  unarmed ; 
Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Shed  not  a  tear,  but  shut  his  teeth, 
and  frowned  a  terrible  frown  I 

Then  they  seized  another  brave  boy, 
—  not  amid  the  heat  of  battle. 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  plough- 
share, —  and  they  loaded  him 
with  chains. 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses, 
even  as  they  goad  their  cattle. 
Drove  him,  cruelly,  for  their  sport, 
and  at  last  blew  out  his  brains ; 
Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Kaised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven, 
calling    Heaven's    vengeance 
down. 

And  he  swore  a  fearful  oath,  by  the 

name  of  the  Almighty, 
He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil 

that  had  scathed  and  torn  him 

so;  — 
He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals ;  he 

would  crush  it  day  and  night ; 

he 


Would  so  pursue  its  footsteps, —  so 
return  it  blow  for  blow  — 
That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in 
backwoods  or  in  town ! 

Then  his  beard  became  more  griz- 
zled,  and  his   wild  blue  eye 
grew  wilder, 
And     more    sharply    curved     his 
hawk's-nose,    snuffing    battle 
from  afar; 
And  he  and  the  two  boys  left,  though 
the  Kansas  strife  waxed  mild- 
er, 
Grew  more  sullen,  till  was  over  the 
bloody  Border  War, 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Had  gone  crazy,  as  they  reckoned  by 
his  fearful  glare  and  frown. 

So  he  left  the  plains  of  Kansas  and 
their  bitter  woes  behind  him, 
Slipt  off  into  Virginia,  where  the 
statesmen  all  are  born. 
Hired  a  farm  by  Harper's  Ferry,  and 
no  one   knew  where  to  find 
him. 
Or  whether  he'd  turned  parson,  or 
was  jacketed  and  shorn; 
For  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Mad  as  he  was,  knew  texts  enough 
to  wear  a  parson's  gown. 

He  bought  no  ploughs  and  harrows, 
spades   and  shovels,   or  such 
trifles ; 
But  quietly  to  his  rancho  there 
came,  by  every  train. 
Boxes  full  of  pikes  and  pistols,  and 
his  well-beloved  Sharpe's  ri- 
fles; 
And  eighteen  other  madmen  joined 
their  leader  there  again. 
Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
"Boys,  we've    got   an   army  large 
enough  to  march  and  whip  the 
town! 

"  Take  the  town,  and  seize  the  mus- 
kets, free  the  negroes,  and  then 
arm  them ; 
Carry  the  County  and  the  State, 
ay,  and  all  the  potent  South; 


HEROIC. 


229 


On  their  own  heads  be  the  slaughter, 
if  their  victims  rise  to  harm 
them  — 
These  Virginians!  who  believed 
not,  nor  would  heed  the  warn- 
ing mouth." 

Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
*'  The  world  shall  see  a  Republic,  or 
my     name      is     not      John 
Brown!" 

'Twas  the  sixteenth  of  October,  on 
the  evening  of  a  Sunday  : 
"  This  good  work,"  declared  the 
captain,  "  shall  be  on  a  holy 
night!" 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and,  be- 
fore the  noon  of  Monday, 
With  two  sons,  and  Captain  Ste- 
phens, fifteen  privates  —  black 
and  white. 

Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Marched  across  the  bridged  Potomac, 
and      knocked      the      sentry 
down ; 

Took  the  guarded  armory-building, 
and  the  muskets  and  the  can- 
non; 
Captured    all  the  county  majors 
and  the  colonels,  one  by  one ; 
Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of 
Virginia  they  ran  on, 
And  before  the  noon  of  Monday, 
I  say,  the  deed  was  done. 
Mad  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men, 
went  in  and  took  the  town. 

Very  little  noise  and  bluster,  little 

smell  of  powder,  made  he; 
It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight, 

like    the    emperor's    coup    d' 

etat ; 
*'  Cut  the  wires !  stop  the  rail-cars ! 

hold  the  streets  and  bridges ! " 

said  he. 
Then  declared  the  new  Republic, 

with     himself     for     guiding 

This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown ; 
And  the  bold  two  thovisand  citizens 
ran  off  and  left  the  town. 


Then  was  riding  and  railroading  and 
expressing  here  and  thither ; 
And  the  Martinsburg  Sharpshoot- 
ers and  the  Charlestown  Vol- 
unteers, 
And       the       Shepherdstown      and 
Winchester   Militia   hastened 
whither 
Old  Brown  was  said  to  muster  his 
ten  thousand  grenadiers ! 
General  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown ! 
Behind  whose  rampant  banner  all 
the  North  was  pouring  down. 


But  at  last,  'tis  said,  some  prisoners 
escaped     from    Old    Brown's 
durance. 
And  the  effervescent  valor  of  the 
Chivalry  broke  out, 
When  they  learned  that    nineteen 
madmen  had   the  marvellous 
assurance  — 
Only  nineteen  —  thus  to  seize  the 
place  and  drive  them  straight 
about ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Found  an  army  come  to  take  him, 
encamped  around  the  town. 


But  to  storm  with  all  the  forces 
we  have  mentioned,  was  too 
risky ; 
So  they  hurried  off  to  Richmond 
for  the  Government  Ma- 
rines — 

Tore  them  from  their  weeping  ma- 
trons, fired  their  souls  with 
Bourbon  whiskey. 

Till    they  battered    down   Brown's 
castle  with  their  ladders  and 
machines ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Received  three  bayonet  stabs,  and  a 
cut  on  his  brave  old  crown. 


Tallyho!    the    old  Virginia    gentry 

gather  to  the  baying ! 
In  they  rushed  and  killed  the  game, 

shooting  lustily  away ; 
And  whene'er    they   slew   a    rebel, 

those  who  came  too  late  for 

slaying, 


2S0 


PARNASSUS. 


Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fixed 
their  bullets  in  his  clay ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and 
between  them  laid  him  down. 


How   the    conquerors    wore    their 
laurels;   how    they    hastened 
on  the  trial ; 
How  Old  Brown  was  placed,  half- 
dying,    on     the    Charlestown 
court-house  floor ; 
How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in 
the  scorn  of  all  denial ; 
What  the  brave  old  madman  told 
them  —  these  are   known  the 
country  o'er. 
"  Hang  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown," 
Said    the    judge,    "and    all    such 
rebels!"  with  his  most  judi- 
cial frown. 


But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it!  for  I 
tell  you  that  the  flagon. 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's 
offspring,  was  first  poured  by 
Southern  hands ; 
And   each  drop  from  Old  Brown's 
life-veins,  like  the  red  gore  of 
the  dragon, 
May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fury, 
hissing    through  your    slave- 
worn  lands ! 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
May  trouble  you  more  than  ever, 
when  you've  nailed  his  coffin 
down! 

E.  C.  Stedman. 
November,  1859. 


BATTLE    HYMN   OF    THE    RE- 
PUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of 
the  coming  of  the  Lord ; 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where 
the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored ! 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning 
of  his  terrible  swift  sword ; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 


I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires 
of  a  hundred  circling  camps ; 

They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in 
the  evening  dews  and  damps : 

I  have  read  his  righteous  sentence 
by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps : 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in 
burnished  rows  of  steel : 

"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so 
with  you  my  grace  shall  deal : 

Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush 
the  serpent  with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet 
that  shall  never  call  retreat; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men 
before  his  judgment-seat ; 

Oh  be  swift  my  soul,  to  answer  him ! 
be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was 

born  across  the  sea. 
With    a    glory  in    his    bosom  that 

transfigures  you  and  me : 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us 
die  to  make  men  free. 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 


MARYLAND. 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland !    My  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  thy  wandering  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  mother  State !  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal. 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal. 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with 
steel, 

Maryland !    My  Maryland  I 


HEROIC. 


231 


Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust; 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland !    My  Maryland ! 

Come!  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 
With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood,  at  Monterey, 
With    fearless    Lowe,   and    dashing 
May, 

Maryland !    My  Maryland ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and 
strong, 

Maryland! 
Come!    for  thy  dalliance  does  thee 
wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  Liberty  along. 
And  give  a  new  key  to  thy  song,* 

Maryland !  My  Maryland ! 

Dear    Mother!    burst    the    tyrant's 
chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 
She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain : 
"  Sic  semper^''  'tis  the  proud  refrain, 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland !  My  Maryland ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 
But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek ; 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland !  My  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

*  The  Star-Spangled  Banner  was  written 
during  tlie  war  of  1812  by  Francis  Key  of 
Maryland. 


Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 
Maryland !  My  Maryland ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  old  Line's  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 
She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb : 
Huzza!    she    spurns    the    Northern 

scum ! 
She    breathes  —  she    burns!    she'll 
come !  she'll  come ! 
Maryland !  My  Maryland  ! 

James  R.  Randall. 

POINTE  COTTPEE, 

April  26,  1861. 

AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

The  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 
The  ship-lights  on  the  sea; 

The  night-wind  smooths  with  drift- 
ing sand 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked 
tide. 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 

Where  field  and  garner,  barn ,  and  byre 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 

From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to 
gate, 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles : 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 


232 


PARNASSUS. 


With  oar-strokes  timing  to  tlieir  song, 
Tliey  weave  in  simple  lays 

The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 
Tlie  hope  of  better  days,  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 
The  joy  of  uncaged  birds : 

Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 
Their  broken  Saxon  words. 

SONG   OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN. 

O,  praise   an'  tanks !     De  Lord  he 
come 
To  set  de  people  free ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  lieap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den; 
He    say    de    word:    we    las'    night 
slaves ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 
De  yam  will    grow,   de  cotton 
blow. 
We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you 
hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind: 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on. 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough. 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 
De  yam  will   grow,   de    cotton 
blow. 
We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn: 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you 
hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn! 

We  pray  de  Lord :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free ; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 
De    yam  will  grow,  de    cotton 
blow, 
We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn: 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you 
hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 


We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word ; 
So  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail. 

We  waited  for  de  Lord : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before. 
We  lub  him  better  free. 
De    yam  will   grow,  de    cotton 
blow, 
He'll  gib  de  rice  an'  corn: 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you 
hear 
De  driver  blow  liis  horn! 

So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny : 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just. 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song ;  each  swarthy 
face. 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 
Oppressor  witli  oppressed ; 

And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined. 
We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing    on,  poor  hearts!   your  chant 
shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 
The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 
Or  death-rune  of  our  doom ! 

Whittier. 


NEVER  OR  NOW. 

In  vain  the  common  tlieme  my 
tongue  would  shun. 

All  tongues,  all  thoughts,  all  hearts 
can  find  but  one. 

Our  alcoves,  where  the  noisy  world 
was  dumb. 

Throb  with  dull  drum-beats,  and  the 
echoes  come 

Laden  with  sounds  of  battle  and  wild 
cries, 

That  mingle  their  discordant  sym- 
phonies. 


HEROIC. 


233 


Old  books  from  yonder  shelves  are 

whispering,  "Peace! 
This  is  the  realm  of  letters,  not  of 

strife." 
Old  graves  in  yonder  field  are  say- 
ing, "Cease! 
Hlcjacet  ends  the  noisiest  mortal's 

life." 
—  Sliut  your  old  books !    Wliat  says 

the  telegraph? 
We  want  an  Extra,  not  an  epitaph. 
Old  Classmates,  (Time's  unconscious 

almanacs, 
Counting  the  years  we  leave  behind 

our  backs. 
And  wearing  them  in  wrinkles  on 

the  brow 
Of  friendship  with  his  kind  "  How 

are  you  noiv  .?") 
Take  us  by  the  hand,  and  speak  of 

times  that  were.  — 
Then    comes    a    moment's    pause: 

"  Pray  tell  me  where 
Your  boy  is  now!    Wounded,  as  I 

am  told."  — 
"Twenty?"      "What  — bless    me! 

twenty-one  years  old ! " 
"  Yes,  —  time  moves  fast."    "  That's 

so.     Old  classmate,  say, 
Do  you  remember  our  Commence- 
ment Day  ? 
Were   we    such    boys    as    these    at 

twenty?"     Nay, 
God  called  them  to   a  nobler  task 

than  ours, 
And  gave  them  holier  thoughts  and 

manlier  powers,  — 
This  is  the  day  of  fruits  and  not  of 

flowers ! 
These  "boys"  we  talk   about  like 

ancient  sages 
Are  the  same  men  we  read  of  in  old 

pages,  — 
The  bronze  recast  of    dead  heroic 

ages! 
We  grudge  them  not,  —  our  dearest, 

bravest,  best,  — 
Let  but   the   quarrel's  issue   stand 

confest : 
'Tis  Earth's  old  slave-God  battling 

for  his  crown. 
And  Freedom  fighting  with  her  visor 

down ! 

Better  the  jagged  shells  their  flesh 

should  mangle,  — 
Better  their  bones  from  Rahab-necks 

should  dangle, 


Better  the  fairest  flower  of  all  our 

culture 
Should  cram  the  black  maw  of  the 

Southern  vulture, 
Than  Cain  act  o'er  the  murder  of  his 

brotber 
Unum  on  our  side  — pluribus  on  the 

other ! 
Each  of  us  owes  the  rest  his  best 

endeavor ; 
Take  these  few  lines,  — we  call  them 

NOW  OR  NEVER. 

Listen,  young  heroes !  your  country 
is  calling ! 
Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  brave 
and  the  true ! 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  fighting 
and  falling. 
Fill  up  the  ranks  that  have  opened 
for  you ! 

You  whom  the  fathers  made  free 
and  defended. 
Stain  not  the  scroll  that  emblazons 
their  fame ! 
You  whose  fair  heritage  spotless  de- 
scended, 
Leave  not  your  children  a  birth- 
right of  shame ! 

Stay  not  for  questions  while  Freedom 
stands  gasping! 
Wait  not  till  Honor  lies  wrapped 
in  his  pall! 
Brief  the  lips'  meeting  be,  swift  the 
hands'  clasping.  — 
" Off  for  the  wars"  is  enough  for 
them  all ! 

Break  from   the    arms   that  would 
fondly  caress  you! 
Hark!  'tis  the  bugle  blast!  sabres 
are  drawn ! 
Mothers  shall  pray  for  you,  fathers 
shall  bless  you. 
Maidens  shall  weep  for  you  when 
you  are  gone ! 


Never  or  now !  cries  the  blood  of  a 
nation 
Poured  on  the  turf  where  the  red 
rose  should  bloom ; 
Now  is  the  day  and  the  hour  of  sal- 
vation ; 
Never  or  now !  peals  the  trumpet 
of  doom ! 


234 


PARNASSUS. 


Never  or  now!    roars    the   hoarse- 
tliroated  cannon. 
Through  the  black  canopy  blotting 
the  skies ; 
Never  or  now !  flaps  the  shell-blasted 
pennon 
O'er  the  deep  ooze  where  the  Cum- 
berland lies ! 

From    the    foul    dens    where    our 
brothers  are  dying, 
Aliens  and  foes  in  the  land  of  their 
birth, 
From  the  rank  swamps  where  our 
martyrs  are  lying 
Pleading  in  vain  for  a  handful  of 
earth ; 

From  the    hot    plains  where    they 
perish  outnumbered, 
Furrowed  and  ridged  by  the  bat- 
tle-field's plough, 
Comes  the  loud  summons ;  too  long 
you  have  slumbered. 
Hear  the  last  Angel-trump — Never 
or  Now ! 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


MASON  AND  SLIDELL :  A  YAN- 
KEE IDYLL. 

CONCORD  BKIDGE. 

HEAJiKEN  in  your  ear,  — 

I'm  older' n  you,  —  Peace  wun't  keep 

house  with  Fear: 
Ef  you  want  peace,  the  thing  you've 

gut  to  du 
Is  jes'  to  show  you're  up  to  fightin', 

tu. 
I  recollect  how  sailors'  rights  was 

won 
Yard   locked  in    yard,   hot    gun-lip 

kissin'  gun : 
Why,  afore  thet,  John  Bull  sot  up 

thet  he 
Hed  gut  a  kind  o'  mortgage  on  the 

sea; 
You'd  thought  he  held  by  Gran'ther 

Adam's  will. 
An'  ef  you  knuckle  down,  Ae'll  tliink 

so  still. 
Better  thet  all  our  ships  an'  all  their 

crews 
Should  sink  to  rot  in  ocean's  dream- 
less ooze, 


Each  torn  flag  wavin'  chellenge  ez  it 

went. 
An'  each  dumb  gun  a  brave  man's 

moniment, 
Than  seek  sech  peace  ez  only  cowards 

crave : 
Give  me  the  peace  of  dead  men  or  of 

brave ! 

THE   MONIMENT. 

I  say,  ole  boy,  it  ain't  the  Glorious 

Fourth : 
You'd  oughto  larned  'fore  this  wut 

talk  wuz  worth. 
It  ain't  our  nose  thet  gits  put  out  o' 

jint; 
It's  England  thet  gives  up  her  dear- 
est pint. 
We've  gut,  I  tell  ye  now,  enough  to 

du 
In  our  own  fem'ly  fight,  afore  we're 

thru. 
I  hoped,  las'  spring,  jest  arter  Sum- 
ter's shame, 
Wlien    every    flagstaff     flapped    its 

tethered  flame. 
An'  all  the  people,  startled  from  their 

doubt. 
Come  must'rin'  to  the  flag  with  sech 

a  shout,  — 
I  hoped  to  see  things  settled  'fore 

this  fall. 
The     Rebbles    licked,     Jeff    Davis 

hanged,  an'  all; 
Then  come  Bull  Run,  an'  sence  then 

I've  ben  waitin' 
Like  boys   in    Jennooary  thaw  for 

skatin', 
Nothin'  to  du  but  watch  my  shad- 

der's  trace 
Swing,  like  a  ship  at  anchor,  roun' 

my  base. 
With  daylight's  flood  an'  ebb:  it's 

gitting  slow, 
An'  I  'most  think  we'd  better  let  'em 

go- 
I  tell  ye  wut,  this  war's  agoin  to 
cost  — 

THE  BRIDGE. 

An'  I  tell  7J0U  it  wun't  be  money 

lost; 
We  wun't  give  up  afore  the  ship  goes 

down : 
It's  a  stiff  gale,  but  Providence  wun't 

drown ; 


HEROIC. 


235 


All'  Grod  wun't  leave  us  yit  to  sink 

or  swim, 
Ef  we  don't  fail  to  du  wut's  right  by 

him. 
This  land  o'  ourn,  I  tell  ye,  's  gut  to 

be 
A  better   country  than   man   ever 

see. 
I  feel  my  sperit  swellin'  with  a  cry 
Thet  seems  to  say,  "Break forth  an' 

prophesy!" 

0  strange  New  World,  thet  yit  wast 

never  young, 
Whose  youth  from  thee  by  gripin' 

need  was  wrung. 
Brown  foundlin'  o'  the  woods,  whose 

baby-bed 
Was  prowled  roun'  by  the  Injuns' 

cracklin'  tread. 
An'  who  grew'st  strong  thru  shifts 

an'  wants  an'  pains, 
Nussed  by  stern  men  with  empires 

in  their  brains. 
Who  saw  in  vision  their  young  Ish- 

mel  strain 
With  each  hard  hand  a  vassal  ocean's 

mane, 
Thou,  skilled  by  Freedom  an'  bygret 

events 
To  pitch  new  States  ez  Old-World 

men  pitch  tents, 
Thou,  taught  by  Fate  to  know  Jeho- 
vah's plan, 
Thet  man's  devices  can't  unmake  a 

man. 
An'  whose  free    latch-string  never 

was  drawed  in 
Against  the  poorest  child  of  Adam's 

kin,  — 
The  grave's  not  dug  where  traitor 

hands  shall  lay 
In  fearful  haste  thy  murdered  corse 

away ! 

1  see  — 

Jest  here  some  dogs  begun  to 
bark. 

So  thet  I  lost  old  Concord's  last  re- 
mark : 

I  listened  long;  but  all  I  seemed  to 
hear 

Was  dead  leaves  goss'pin'  on  some 
birch-trees  near; 

But  ez  they  hedn't  no  gret  things  to 
say, 

An'  sed  'em  often,  I  come  right 
away. 

An',  walkin'  home'ards,  jest  to  pass 
the  time, 


I  put  some  thoughts  thet  bothered 

me  in  rhyme : 
I  hain't  bed  time  to  fairly  try  'em  on^ 
But  here  they  be  —  it's  — 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN. 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 
When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John, 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull ! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
We  know  it  now,"  sez  he, 
"  The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law, 
Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet's  fit  for  you  an'  me ! " 

Blood  ain't  so  cool  as  ink,  John; 

It's  likely  you'd  ha'  wrote. 
An'  stopped  a  spell  to  think,  John, 
Arter  they'd  cut  your  throat? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
He'd  skurce  ha'  stopped,  "sez  he, 
"  To  mind  his  p's  an'  q's  ef  thet 

weasaii' 
He'd  b' longed  to  ole  J.  B., 
Instid  o'  you  an'  me ! " 

Ef  I  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 

On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 
Would  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 
To  wait  an'  sue  their  heirs  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
I  on'y  guess,"  sez  he, 
"Thet,    ef    Vattellon   his  toes 

fell, 
'Twould  kind  o'  rile  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  and  me ! " 

Who  made  the  law  thet  hurts,  John, 

Heads  I  win  —  ditto,  tails  f 
"  J^.  1?."  was  on  his  shirts,  John, 
Onless  my  memory  fails. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
(I'm  good  at  thet,")  sez  he, 
"  Thet  sauce  for  goose  ain't  jest 

the  juice 
For  ganders  with  J.  B., 
No  more  than  you  or  me ! " 

When  your  rights  was  our  wrong, 
John, 
You  didn't  stop  for  fuss,  — 
Britanny's  trident-prongs,  John, 
Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
Though  physic's  good,"  sez  he, 


236 


PARNASSUS. 


"It  doesn't  f oiler  thet  he  can 

swaller 
Prescriptions  signed  'J".  J5.' 
Put  up  by  you  an'  me ! " 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John : 

You  mus'n'  take  it  hard, 
Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 
It's  jest  your  own  back-yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Ef  thefs  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
"  Thefencin'-stuff'll  costenough 
To  bust  up  friend  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me !  " 

Why  talk  so  dreffle  big,  John, 

Of  honor,  when  it  meant 
You  didn't  care  a  fig,  John, 
But  jest  for  ten  per  cent  f 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess. 
He's  like  the  rest,"  sez  he: 
*'  When  all  is  done,  it's  number 

one 
Thet's  nearest  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me ! " 

We  give  the  critters  back,  John, 

Coz  Abra'm  thought  'twas  right; 
It  warn't  your  bullyin'  clack,  John, 
Provokin'  us  to  fight. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
We've  a  hard  row,"  sez  he, 
"To  hoe  just  now:    but  thet, 

somehow. 
May  happen  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me ! " 

We  ain't  so  weak  an'  poor,  John, 

With  twenty  million  people. 
An'  close  to  every  door,  John, 
A  school-house  an'  a  steeple. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
It  is  a  fact,"  sez  he, 
"  The  surest  plan  to  make  a  Man 
Is,  Think  him  so,  J.  B., 
Ez  much  ez  you  or  me !  " 

Our  folks  believe  in  Law,  John : 
*  An'  it's  for  her  sake,  now. 

They've  left  the  axe  an'  saw,  John, 
The  anvil  an'  the  plough. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  ''  I  guess, 
Eft  warn't  for  law,"  sez  he, 
"  There'd   be  one  shindy  from 

here  to  Indy ; 
An'  thet  don't  suit  J.  B., 
(Wlien    'tain't   'twixt  you   an' 
me  I") 


We  know  we've  gut  a  cause,  John, 

Thet's  honest,  just,  an'  true; 
We  thought  'twould  win  applause, 
John, 
Ef  nowheres  else,  from  you. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
His  love  of  right,"  sez  he, 
"  Hangs  by  a  rotten  fibre  o'cotton : 
There's  natur'  in  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me ! " 

The  South  says,  "  Poor  folks  down  !  " 
John, 
An'  "  All  men  up  I  "  say  we,  — 
White,  yaller,  black,  an'  brown,  John : 
Now  which  is  your  idee  ? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
John  preaches  wal,"  sez  he: 
"  But,  sermon  thru,  an'  come  to 

du, 
Why,  there's  the  ole  J.  B. 
A-crowdin'  you  an'  me!" 

Shall  it  be  love  or  hate,  John  ? 

It's  you  thet's  to  decide: 
Ain't  your  bonds  held  by  Fate,  John, 
Like  all  the  world's  beside? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
Wise  men  forgive,"  sez  he, 
"But  not  forget;  an'  sometime 

yet 
The  truth  may  strike  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me ! " 

God  means  to  make  this  land,  John, 

Clear  thru,  from  sea  to  sea. 
Believe  an'  understand,  John, 
The  imith  o'  bein'  free. 
Ole  Uncle  S,  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
God's  price  is  high,"  sez  he: 
"But  nothin'  else  than  wut  he 

sells 
Wears  long,  an'  thet  J.  B. 
May  larn  like  you  an'  me!" 
J.  R.  Lowell  :  Mason  and  Slidell. 


THE  FLAG. 

There's    a   flag    hangs    over   my 

threshold,    whose    folds    are 

more  dear  to  me 
Than  the  blood  that  thrills  in  my 

bosom  its  earnest  of  liberty ; 
And  dear  are  the  stars  it  harbors  in 

its  sunny  field  of  blue 
As  the  hope  of  a  further  heaven  that 

lights  all  our  dim  lives  through. 


HEROIC. 


237 


But  now  should  my  guests  be  merry, 
the  house  is  in  holiday  guise, 

Looking  out,  through  its  burnished 
windows  like  a  score  of  wel- 
coming eyes. 

Come  hither,  my  brothers  who  wan- 
der in  saintiiness  and  in  sin ! 

Come  hither,  ye  pilgrims  of  Nature ! 
my  heart  doth  invite  you  in. 

My  wine  is  not  of  the  choicest,  yet 

bears  it  an  honest  brand ; 
And  the  bread  that  I  bid  you  lighten 

I  break  with  no  sparing  hand ; 
But  pause,  ere  you  pass  to  taste  it, 

one  act  must  accomplished  be : 
Salute  the  flag  in  its  virtue,  before 

ye  sit  down  with  me. 

The  flag  of  our  stately  battles,  not 
struggles  of  wrath  and  greed  : 

Its  stripes  were  a  holy  lesson,  its 
spangles  a  deathless  creed ; 

'Twas  red  with  the  blood  of  free- 
men, and  white  with  the  fear 
of  the  foe. 

And  the  stars  that  fight  in  their 
courses  'gainst  tyrants  its 
symbols  know. 

Come  hither,  thou  son  of  my  moth- 
er! we  were  reared  in  the 
selfsame  arms ; 

Thou  hast  many  a  pleasant  gesture, 
thy  mind  hath  its  gifts  and 
charms , 

But  my  heart  is  as  stern  to  question 
as  mine  eyes  are  of  sorrows 
full: 

Salute  the  flag  in  its  virtue,  or  pass 
on  where  others  rule. 

Thou  lord  of  a  thousand  acres,  with 

heaps  of  uncounted  gold. 
The  steeds  of  thy  stall  are  haughty, 

thy  lackeys  cunning  and  bold  : 
I  envy  no  jot  of  thy  splendor,  I  rail 

at  thy  follies  none : 
Salute  the  flag  in  its  virtue,  or  leave 

my  poor  house  alone. 

Fair  lady  with  silken  trappings,  high 
waving  thy  stainless  plume. 

We  welcome  thee  to  our  numbers,  a 
flower  of  costliest  bloom : 

Let  a  hundred  maids  live  widowed 
to  furnish  thy  bridal  bed ; 

But  pause  where  the  flag  doth  ques- 
tion, and  bend  thy  triumphant 
head. 


Take  down  now  your  flaunting  ban- 
ner, for  a  scout  comes  breath- 
less and  pale. 

With  the  terror  of  death  upon  him ; 
of  failure  is  all  his  tale : 

"  They  have  fled  while  the  flag 
waved  o'er  them!  they  have 
turned  to  the  foe  their  back ! 

They  are  scattered,  pursued,  and 
slaughtered !  the  fields  are  all 
rout  and  wrack!" 

Pass  hence,  then,  the  friends  I  gath- 
ered, a  goodly  company ! 

All  ye  that  have  manhood  in  you, 
go,  perish  for  Liberty ! 

But  I  and  the  babes  God  gave 
me  will  wait  with  uplifted 
hearts. 

With  the  firm  smile  ready  to  kindle, 
and  the  will  to  perform  our 
parts. 

When  the  last  true  heart  lies  blood- 
less, when  the  fierce  and  the 
false  have  won, 

I'll  press  in  turn  to  my  bosom  each 
daughter  and  either  son ; 

Bid  them  loose  the  flag  from  its 
bearings,  and  we'll  lay  us 
down  to  rest 

With  the  glory  of  home  about  us, 
and  its  freedom  locked  in  our 
breast. 

Julia  Wakd  Howe. 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE 
SHROUD. 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not 
where, 

I  walked  one  night  in  mystery  of 
dream ; 

A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath 
my  hair. 

To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pal- 
lid gleam 

Of  a  moor- wraith  that  waned  through 
haunted  air. 

Pale  fire-flies  pulsed  within  the  mead- 
ow mist 

Their  halos,  wavering  thistle-downs 
of  fight; 

The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some 
goblin  tryst, 


238 


PABNASSUS. 


Laughed;  and  the  echoes,  huddling 

in  affright, 
Like    Odin's    hounds,    fled    baying 

down  the  night. 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote 

my  ear 
A    movement    in  the   stream    that 

checked  my  breath : 
Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading 

deer? 
But  sometliing  said,  "  This  water  is 

of  Death! 
The    Sisters   wash    a    Shroud, — ill 

thing  to  hear!" 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient 

Three, 
Known  to  the   Greek's  and  to  the 

Norseman's  creed. 
That  sit  in  shadow  of   the  mystic 

Tree, 
Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their 

endless  brede, 
One  song:  "Time  was.  Time  is,  and 

Time  shall  be." 

No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as  I 
had  deemed, 

But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-mor- 
row, 

To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever 
seemed : 

Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep 
for  sorrow, 

Thrilled  in  their  tones,  and  from 
their  faces  gleamed. 

"  Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they 

have  strawn;" 
So  sang  they,  M'orking  at  their  task 

the  while ; 
"  The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed 

ere  dawn ; 
For  Austria?  Italy?  the  Sea-Queen's 

Isle? 
O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must 

our  shroud  be  drawn  ? 

'*  Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer 
corse. 

That  gathered  States  for  children 
round  his  knees, 

That  tamed  the  wave  to  be  his  post- 
ing-horse, 

Feller  of  forests,  linker  of  the  seas. 

Bridge-builder,  hammerer,  youngest 
sou  of  Thor's  ? 


"What  make  we,  muraiur'st  thou, 

and  what  are  we  ? 
When  empires  must  be  wound,  we 

bring  the  shroud, 
The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable 

Three: 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young 

and  proud  ? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear 

it;  wliy  not  he?" 

"Is  there  no  hope?"    I    moaned. 

"So  strong,  so  fair! 
Our  Fowler,  whose  proud  bird  would 

brook  ere  while 
No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western 

air! 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For  him,  life's  morn-gold  bright  yet 

in  his  hair ! 

"  Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpity- 
ing  dames ! 

I  see,  half  seeing.  Tell  me,  ye  who 
scanned 

The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  still  must 
noblest  aims 

Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean- 
sands  ? 

Must  Hesper  join  the  wailing  ghosts 
of  names?" 

"  Wlien  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red 

battle-dew, 
Te  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and 

the  slain: 
Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be 

leal  and  true 
To  the    heart's    longing,   the  high 

faith  of  brain  ? 
Yet  there  the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but 

knew. 

"Three  roots  bear   up    dominion: 

Knowledge,  Will ; 
These  twain  are  strong,  but  stronger 

yet  the  third  — 
Obedience,   'tis  the  great  tap-root, 

that  still. 
Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not 

stirred. 
Though    Heaven  -  loosed     tempests 

spend  their  utmost  skill. 

"Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper? 

'Tis  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all 

time : 


HEROIC. 


239 


The  brave  makes  danger  opportu- 
nity; 

The  waverer,  paltering  with  the 
chance  sublime, 

Dwarfs  it  to  peril :  which  shall  Hes- 
per  be  ? 

"  Hath  he  let  vultures    climb    his 

eagle's  seat, 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of 

their  maw  ? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found 

more  sweet 
Than  Wisdom?  held  Opinion's  wind 

for  Law  ? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  doom- 

ster'sfeet! 

"  Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in 

flintiest  rock. 
States  climb  to  power  by;  slippery 

those  with  gold, 
Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal 

mock ; 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the 

sceptre  hold, 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would 

sell  the  block. 

*'We  sing  old  sagas,  songs  of  weal 
and  woe. 

Mystic  because  too  cheaply  under- 
stood ; 

Dark  sayings  are  not  ours ;  men  hear 
and  know. 

See  Evil  weak;  see  strength  alone  in 
Good, 

Yet  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  with 
walls  of  tow. 

"Time  Was  unlocks   the  riddle  of 

Time  Is, 
That    offers    choice  of    glory  or  of 

gloom ; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall    Be 

surely  his. 
But  hasten,  Sisters!  for  even  now 

the  tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge,  and  calls  from 

the  abyss." 

"But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,   "not 

yet  for  him. 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star 

by  star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on 

Ocean's  rim 


The  sunset  shuts  the  world    with 

golden  bar  — 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye 

grow  dim ! 

"His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved 

for  those 
That  walk  unblenching  through  the 

trial-fires ; 
Not  suffering,  but  faint    heart,  is 

worst  of  woes. 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven 

sires. 
Whose  eye  need  blench,  confronted 

with  his  foes. 

"Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for 

those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  foeman's 

lines : 
Peace,  too,  brings  tears,  and  'mid  the 

battle-din, 
The  wiser  ear  some   text  of    God 

divines ; 
For  the  sheathed  blade  may    rust 

with  darker  sin. 

"God,  give  us  peace!  not  such  as 

lulls  to  sleep, 
But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with 

purpose  knit! 
And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor 

sweep, 
Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns 

lit. 
And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering 

for  their  leap!" 

So  cried  I,  with  clinched  hands  and 
passionate  pain. 

Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's 
side : 

Again  the  loon  laughed,  mocking; 
and  again 

The   echoes    bayed    far    down    the 
night,  and  died. 

While  waking,  I  recalled  my  wan- 
dering brain. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 
Ou    board    of    the    Cumberland, 

sloop-of-war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across 

the  bay 


240 


PARNASSUS. 


The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 
A    little    feather    of    snow-white 
smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of 
our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from 
her  guns. 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath. 
From  each  open  port. 

We    are   not    idle,    but    send   her 
straight 
Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside ! 
As  hail   rebounds  from   a  roof    of 
slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"Strike  your  flag!"  the  rebel  cries. 
In    his    arrogant    old    plantation 
strain. 
"Never!"    our    gallant  Morris  re- 
plies: 
"It  is  better  to  sink  than  to 

yield!" 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black. 
She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron 


grasp 


Down  went  the  Cumberland  all   a 
wrack. 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  mom,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the 
bay. 
Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  main- 
mast-head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day  J 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 


Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in 
the  seas ! 
Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled 
stream. 
Ho!    brave  land!    with  hearts  like 
these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain. 
Shall  be  one  again. 
And  without  a  seam ! 

Longfellow. 


SUNTHIN  IN  A  PASTORAL 
LINE. 

Once  git  a  smell  o'   musk  into  a 

draw, 
An'  it  clings  hold  like  precerdents  in 

law: 
Your    gra'ma'am    put    it    there, — 

when,  goodness  knows, — 
To    jes'   this-worldify  her  Sunday- 

clo'es; 
But  the  old  chist  wun't  sarve  her 

gran' son's  wife, 
(For,    'tliout    new    funnitoor,    wut 

good  in  life?) 
An'  so  ole  clawfoot,  from  the  pre- 

cinks  dread 
O'  the  spare  chamber,   slinks   into 

the  shed, 
Where,  dim  with  dust,  it  fust  or  last 

subsides 
To  holdin'  seeds,  an'  fifty  things  be- 
sides ; 
But  better  days  stick  fast  in  heart 

an'  husk. 
An'  all  you  keep  in't  gits  a  scent  o' 

musk. 

Jes'   so  with   poets:    wut    they've 

airly  read 
Gits  kind  o'  worked  into  their  heart 

an'  head, 
So's't  they  can't  seem  to  write  but 

jest  on  sheers 
With  furrin  countries  or  played-out 

ideers. 
Nor    hev    a    feelin',   ef    it    doosn't 

smack 
O'   wut  some  critter  chose  to  feel 

'way  back : 
This  makes  'em  talk  o'  daises,  larks, 

an'  things, 
Ez  though  we'd  nothin'  here  that 

blows  an'  sings,  — 
(Why,  I'd  give  more  for  one  live 

bobolink 


HEROIC. 


241 


Than  a  square  mile  o'  larks  in  print- 
er's ink,)  — 

This  makes  'em  think  our  fust  'o 
May  is  May, 

Which' t  ain't,  for  all  the  almanicks 
can  say. 

O  little  city-gals!  don't  never  go  it 

Blind  on  the  word  o'  noospaper  or 
poet! 

They're  apt  to  puff,  an'  May-day 
seldom  looks 

Up  in  the  country  ez  it  doos  in 
books ; 

They're  no  more  like  than  hornets' 
nests  an'  hives, 

Or  printed  sarmons  be  to  holy  lives. 

I,  with  my  trouses  perched  on  cow- 
hide boots, 

Tuggin'  my  foundered  feet  out  by 
the  roots, 

Hev  seen  ye  come  to  fling  on  April's 
hearse 

Your  muslin  nosegays  from  the 
miliiner's, 

Puzzlin'  to  find  dry  ground  your 
queen  to  choose, 

An'  dance  your  throats  sore  in  mo- 
rocker  shoes : 

I've  seen  ye,  an'  felt  proud,  thet, 
come  wut  would, 

Our  Pilgrim  stock  wuz  pithed  with 
hardihood. 

Pleasure  doos  make  us  Yankees 
kind  o'  winch, 

Ez  though  'twuz  sunthin'  paid  for  by 
the  inch ; 

But  yit  we  du  contrive  to  worry 
thru, 

Ef  Dooty  tells  us  thet  the  thing's  to 
du, 

An'  kerry  a  hoUerday,  ef  we  set 
out, 

Pz  stiddily  ez  though  'twuz  a  re- 
doubt. 

I,  country-born  an'  bred,  know 
where  to  find 

Some  blooms  thet  make  the  season 
suit  the  mind. 

An'  seem  to  metch  the  doubtin' 
bluebird's  notes,  — 

Half- vent' rin'  liverworts  in  furry 
coats, 

^loodroots,  whose  rolled-up  leaves 
ef  you  oncurl, 

Each  on  'em's  cradle  to  a  baby- 
pearl,  — 

16 


But  these  are  jes'  Spring's  pickets; 

sure  ez  sin. 
The  rebble  frosts'll  try  to  drive  'eiu 

in; 
For  half  our  May's  so  awfully  like 

Mayn't, 
'T would  rile  a  Shaker  or  an  evrige 

saint ; 
Though  I  own  up  I  like  our  back'ard 

springs 
Thet  kind    o'     haggle    with    their 

greens  an'  things. 
An'  when  you  'most  give  up,  'ithout 

more  words 
Toss    the    fields  full    o'    blossoms, 

leaves,  an'  birds: 
Thet's  Northun  natur',  slow,  an'  apt 

to  doubt, 
But  when  it  doos  git  stirred,  ther's 

no  gin-out ! 

Fust  come  the  blackbirds  clatt'rin' 
in  tall  trees, 

An'  settlin'  things  in  windy  Con- 
gresses, — 

Queer  politicians,  though,  for  I'll  be 
skinned 

Ef  all  on  'em  don't  head  against  the 
wind. 

'Fore  long  the  trees  begin  to  show 
belief,  — 

The  maple  crimsons  to  a  coral-reef, 

Then  saffern  swarms  swing  off  from 
all  the  willers 

So  plump  they  look  like  yaller  cater- 
pillars, 

Then  gray  hoss-ches'nuts  leetle 
hands  unfold 

Softer' n  a  baby's  be  at  three  days 
old: 

Thet's  robin-redbreast's  almanick; 
he  knows 

Thet  arter  this  ther's  only  blossom- 
snows  ; 

So,  choosin'  out  a  handy  crotch  an' 
spouse, 

He  goes  to  plast'rin'  his  adobe  house. 

Then    seems  to    come    a    hitch, — 

things  lag  behind. 
Till  some  fine  mornin'  Spring  makes 

up  her  mind. 
An'   ez,   when  snow-swelled  rivers 

cresh  their  dams 
Heaped-up  with  ice  thet  dovetails  in 

an'  jams, 
A  leak   comes    spirtin'   thru    some 

pin-hole  cleft, 


242 


PARNASSUS. 


Grows  stronger,   fercer,    tears    out 

right  an'  left, 
Then  all  the  waters  bow  themselves 

an'  come, 
Sucldin,  in  one  great  slope  o'  shed- 

derin'  foam, 
Jes'  so  our  Spring  gits  every  thin'  in 

tune. 
An'  gives  one  leap  from  April  into 

June : 
Then  all  comes  crowdin'  in;  afore 

you  think. 
Young  oak-leaves  mist  the  side-hill 

woods  with  pink; 
The  cat-bird  in  the  laylock-bush  is 

loud ; 
The  orchards  turn  to  heaps  o'  rosy 

cloud ; 
Ked-cedars  blossom  tu,  though  few 

folks  know  it, 
An'  look  all  dipt  in  sunshine  like  a 

poet; 
The  lime-trees  pile  their  solid  stacks 

o'  shade, 
An'  drows'ly  simmer  with  the  bees' 

sweet  trade ; 
In  ellum-shrouds  the  flashin'  hang- 
bird  clings 
An'  for  the  summer  vy'ge  his  ham- 
mock slings : 
All    down    the    loose-walled    lanes 

in  archin'  bowers 
The  barb'ry  droops  its    strings   o' 

golden  flowers, 
Whose  shrinkin'  hearts  the  school- 
gals  love  to  try 
With  pins,  —  they'll  worry  yourn  so, 

boys,  bimeby ! 
But  I  don't  love  your  cat'logue  style, 

—  do  you  ?  — 
Ez  ef  to  sell  off  Natur'  by  vendoo; 
One  word  with  blood  in't's  ez  twice 

ez  good  ez  two : 
'Nuff  sed,   June's  bridesman,   poet 

o'  the  year. 
Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink,  is 

here ; 
Half-hid  in  tip-top  apple-blooms  he 

swings, 
Or  climbs    aginst  the  breeze    with 

quiverin'  wings. 
Or,  glvin'  way  to't  in  a  mock  de- 
spair, 
Runs  down,   a  brook    o'    laughter, 

thru  the  air. 
I  ollus  feel  the  sap  start  in  my  veins 
In    Spring,   with    curus    heats    an' 

prickly  pains, 


Thet  drive  me,  when  I  git  a  chance, 

to  walk 
Off  by  myself  to  hev  a  privit  talk 
With  a  queer  critter  thet  can't  seem 

to  'gree 
Along  o'  me  like  most  folks,  —  Mis- 
ter Me. 
Ther*  is  times  when  I'm  unsoshle  ez 

a  stone. 
An'  sort  o'  suffocate  to  be  alone,  — 
I'm  crowded  jes'  to  think  thet  folks 

are  nigh, 
An'  can't  bear  nothin'   closer  than 

the  sky ; 
Now  the  wind's  full  ez  shifty  in  the 

mind 
Ez  wut  it  is  ou' -doors,   ef  I  ain't 

blind, 
An,  sometimes,  in  the  fairest  sou'- 

west  weather. 
My  inward  vane  pints  east  for  weeks 

together. 
My  natur'   gits  all  goose-flesh,  an' 

my  sins 
Come    drizzlin'    on    my  conscience 

sharp  ez  pins : 
Wal,  et  sech  times  I  jes'  slip  out  o' 

sight. 
An'  take  it  out  in  a  fair  stan'  up  fight 
With  the  one  cuss  I  can't  lay  on  the 

shelf. 
The    crook'dest    stick    in    all    the 

heap,  —  myself. 

'Twuz  so  las'  Sabbath  arter  meetin'- 

time : 
Find  in'  myfeelin's  wouldn't  noways 

rhyme 
With  nobody's,  but  off  the  hendle 

flew 
An'  took  things  from  an  east-wind 

pint  o'  view, 
I  started  off  to  lose  me  in  the  hills 
Where    the    pines    be,   up  back  o' 

Slab's  Mills : 
Pines,  ef  you're  blue,  are  the  best 

friends  I  know. 
They  mope  an'  sigh  an'  sheer  your 

feelin's  so, — 
They  hesh  the  ground  beneath  so, 

tu,  I  swan, 
You  half-forgit  you've  gut  a  body  on. 
Ther's  a  small  skool'us'  there  where 

four  roads  meet. 
The  door-steps  hollered  out  by  little 

feet. 
An'   side-post   cai-ved    with    names 

whose  owners  grew 


HEROIC. 


243 


To  gret  men,  some  on  'em  an'  dea- 
cons, tu; 
'Tain't  used  no  longer,  coz  the  town 

hez  gut 
A  high-school,  where  they  teach  the 

Lord  knows  wut : 
Three-story  larnm's  pop'lar  now;  I 

guess 
We  thriv'  ez  wal  on  jes'  two  stories 

less, 
For    it    strikes    me    ther's    sech    a 

thing  ez  sinnin' 
By  overloadin'  children's  underpin- 

nin' : 
Wal,  here  it  wuz  I  larned  my  A,  B,  C, 
An'  it's  a  kind  o'  favorite  spot  with 

me. 

We're  curus  critters:  Now  ain't  jes' 

the  minute 
That  ever  fits  us  easy  while  we're 

in  it; 
Long  ez  'twuz  futur',   'twould    be 

perfect  bliss,  — 
Soon  ez  it's  past,  thet  time's  wuth 

ten  o'  this ; 
An'  yit  there  ain't  a  man  thet  need 

be  told 
Thet  Now's  the  only  bird  lays  eggs 

o'  gold. 
A  knee-high  lad,  I  used  to  plot  an' 

plan 
An'  think  'twuz  life's  cap-sheaf  to 

be  a  man ; 
Now,  gittin'  gray,  there's  nothin'  I 

enjoy 
Like  dreamin'   back   along    into    a 

boy: 
So  the  ole  school' us'  is  a  place    I 

choose 
Afore  all  others,  ef  I  want  to  muse ; 
I  set  down  where  I  used  to  set,  an' 

git 
My  boyhood  back,  an'  better  things 

with  it,  — 
Faith,  Hope,  an'  sunthin',  ef  it  isn't 

Cherrity, 
It's  want  o'  guile,  an'  thet's  ez  gret 

a  rerrity. 

Now,  'fore  I  knowed,  thet  Sabbath 

arternoon 
Thet  I  sot  out  to  tramp  myself  in 

tune, 
I  found  me  in  the  school' us'  on  my 

seat, 
Drummin'  the  march  to  No-wheres 

with  my  feet. 


Thinkin'  o'  nothin',  I've  heerd  ole 

folks  say, 
Is  a  hard  kind  o'  dooty  in  its  way : 
It's  thinkin'   every  thin'   you  ever 

knew. 
Or  ever  hearn,  to  make  your  feelins 

blue. 
I  sot  there  tryin'  thet  on  for  a  spell: 
I  thought  o'  the  Rebellion,  then  o' 

Hell, 
Which  some  folks  tell  ye  now  is  jes' 

a  metterfor, 
(A  the'ry,  p'raps,  it  wun't/eei  none 

the  better  for) ; 
I  thought  o'    Reconstruction,   wut 

we'd  win 
Patchin'    our    patent    self-blow-up 

agin : 
I  thought  ef  this  'ere  milkin'  o'  the 

wits. 
So    much  a    month,    warn't   givin' 

Natur'  fits,  — 
Ef  folks  warn't  druv,  findiu'  their 

own  milk  fail. 
To  work  the  cow  thet  lies  an  iron  tail, 
An'  ef  idees  'thout  ripenin'  in  the 

pan 
Would  send  up  cream  to  humor  ary 

man: 
From  this  to  thet  I  let  my  worryin' 

creep. 
Till  finally  I  must  ha'  fell  asleep. 

Our  lives  in    sleep    are    some   like 

streams  thet  glide 
'Twixt  flesh  an'  sperrit  boundin'  on 

each  side, 
Wliere  both  shores'   shadders  kind 

o'  mix  an'  mingle 
In  sunthin'  thet  ain't  jes'  like  either 

single ; 
An'    when    you    cast  off    moorin's 

from  To-day, 
An'  down  towards  To-morrer  drift 

away, 
The  imiges  thet  tengle  on  the  stream 
Make  a  new  upside-down' ard  world 

o'  dream : 
Sometimes  they  seem  like  sunrise- 
streaks  an'  warnings 
O'  wut' 11  be  in  Heaven  on  Sabbath- 

mornin's, 
An',  mixed  right  in  ez  ef  jest  out  o' 

spite, 
Sunthin'  thet  says  your  supper  ain't 

gone  right. 
I'm  gret  on  dreams,  an'  often,  when 

I  wake, 


244 


PARNASSUS. 


I've    lived   so  much  it  makes    my 

mem'ry  ache, 
An'  can't  skurce  take  a  cat-nap  in 

my  cheer 
'Thout  hevin'  'em,  some  good,  some 

bad,  all  queer. 

Now  I  wuz  settin'  where  I'd  ben,  it 

seemed, 
^n'   ain't  sure  yit  whether  I  r'ally 

dreamed, 
Nor,  ef  I  did,  how  long  I  might  ha' 

slep', 
When  I  hearn  some  un  stompin'  up 

the  step, 
An'   lookin'  round,  ef  two  an'  two 

make  four, 
I  see  a  Pilgrim  Father  in  the  door. 
He  wore  a  steeple-hat,  tall  boots,  an' 

spurs 
With  rowels  to  'em  big  ez  ches' nut- 
burrs, 
An'  his  gret  sword  behind  him  sloped 

away 
Long'z  a  man's  speech  thet  dunno 

wut  to  say.  — 
"Ef  your  name's  Biglow,  an'   your 

given-name 
Hosee,"  sez  he,    ''it's  arter  you  I 

came; 
I'm  your  gret-gran'ther  multiplied 

by  tbree."  — 
"  My  imit  f  "    sez  I.  —  "  Your   gret- 

gret-gret,"  sez  he: 
**You  wouldn't  ha'  never  ben  here 

but  for  me. 
Two  hundred  an'  three  year  ago  this 

May 
The  ship  I  come  in  sailed  up  Boston 

Bay; 
I'd  been  a  cunnle  in  our  Civil  War,  — 
But  wut  on  airth  hev  you  gut  up 

one  for? 
Coz  we  du  things  in  England,  'tain't 

for  you 
To  git  a  notion  you  can  du  'em  tu : 
I'm  told  you  write  in  public  prints : 

ef  true, 
It's  nateral  you  should  know  a  thing 

or  two."  — 
*Thet    air's    an    argymunt  I  can't 

endorse,  — 
'T would  prove,  coz  you  wear  spurs, 

you  kep'  a  horse : 
For  brains,"   sez  I,  "  wutever  you 

may  think, 
Ain't  boun'  to  cash  the  drafs  o'  pen- 

an'-ink,  — 


Though  mos'  folks  write  ez  ef  they 

hoped  jes'  quickenin' 
The  churn  would  argoo  skim-milk 

into  thickenin' ; 
But    skim-milk    ain't    a    thing    to 

change  its  view 
O'  wut  it's  meant  for  more'n  a  smoky 

flue. 
But  du  pray  tell  me,  'fore  we  furder 

go, 
How  in  all  Natur'  did  you  come  to 

know 
'Bout  our  affairs,"  sez  I,  "in  King- 
dom Come?"  — 
"Wal,  I  worked  round  at  sperrit- 

rappin'  some, 
An'  danced  the  tables  till  their  legs 

wuz  gone, 
In  hopes  o'  larnin'  wut  wuz  goin' 

on," 
Sez  he,  "but  mejums  lie  so  like  all- 
split 
Thet  I  concluded  it  wuz  best  to  quit. 
But,  come  now,  ef  you  wun't  con- 
fess to  knowin', 
You've  some  conjectures  how  the 

thing's  a-goin'.  "  — 
"  Gran'ther,"  sez  I,  "  a  vane  warn't 

never  known 
Nor  asked  to  hev  a  jedgment  of  its 

own ; 
An'  yit,  ef  'tain't  gut  rusty  in  the 

jints, 
It's  safe  to  trust  its  say  on  certin 

pints : 
It  knows  the  wind's  opinions  to  a  T, 
An'     the    wind    settles     wut     the 

weather' 11  be." 
"I  never  thought  a  scion  of   our 

stock 
Could    grow  the  wood  to  make  a 

weathercock ; 
When  I  wuz  younger' n  you,  skurce 

more'n  a  shaver, 
No  airtbly   wind,"    sez  he,  "could 

make  me  waver!" 
(Ez  he  said  this,  he  clinched  his  jaw 

an'  forehead, 
Hitchin'  his  belt  to  bring  his  sword- 
hilt  forrard.)  — 
"  Jes'  so  it  wuz  with  me,"  sez  I, 

"  I  swow, 
When  I  wuz  younger'n  what  you 

see  me  now,  — 
No  thin'  from  Adam's  fall  to  Huldy's 

bonnet, 
Thet  I  warn't  full-cocked  with  my 

jedgment  on  it ; 


HEROIC. 


245 


But  now  I'm  gittin'  on  in  life,  I  find 
It's  a  sight  harder  to  make  up  my 

mind,  — 
Nor  I    don't    often    try    tu,    when 

events 
Will  du  it  for  me  free  of  all  expense. 
The    moral    question's    oUus    plain 

enough,  — 
It's  jes'  the  human-natur'  side  thet's 

tough  ;- 
Wut's  best  to  think  mayn't  puzzle 

me  nor  you,  — 
The  pinch  comes  in  decidin'  wut  to 

du  ; 
Ef     you    read    History,     all    runs 

smooth  ez  grease, 
Coz    there    the    men    ain't  nothin' 

more'n  idees,  — 
But  come  to  make  it,  ez  we  must  to- 
day, 
Th'  idees  hev  arms  an'  legs,  an'  stop 

the  way  : 
It's  easy  fixin'  things  in  facts  an' 

figgers,  — 
They     can't     resist,     nor     warn't 

brought  up  with  niggers ; 
But  come  to  try  your  the'ry  on, — 

why,  then 
Your    facts    an'    figgers  change  to 

ign'ant  men 
Actin'  ez  ugly" — "Smite  'em  hip 

an' thigh!" 
Sez  gran'ther,   "an'  let  every  man- 
child  die ! 
Oh  for  three  weeks  o'  Crommle  an' 

the  Lord ! 
Up,  Isr'el,  to  your  tents  an'  grind 

the  sword!"  — 
"Thetkindo'  thing  worked  wal  in 

ole  Judee, 
But  you  forgit  how  long  it's  ben 

A.D.; 
You    think    thet's    ellerkence,  —  I 

call  it  shoddy, 
A  thing,"  sez  I,  "  wun't  cover  soul 

nor  body ; 
I  like  the  plain  all-wool  o'  common- 
sense, 
Thet    warms    ye    now,   an'    will    a 

twelvemonth  hence. 
You    took    to    follerin'    where    the 

Prophets  beckoned. 
An,'  fust  you  knowed  on,  back  come 

Charles  the  Second ; 
Now  wut  I  want's  to  hev  all  we  gain 

stick, 
An'    not    to    start  Millennium  too 

quick ; 


We  hain't  to  punish   only,  but  to 

keep, 
An'   the  cure's  gut  to  go  a  cent'ry 

deep." 
"Wal,  niilk-an'-water  ain't  the  best 

o'  glue," 
*Sez  he,  "  an'  so  you'll  find  before 

you're  thru; 
Ef  reshness  venters  sunthin',  shilly- 
shally 
Lozes  ez  often  wut's  ten  times  the 

vally. 
Thet  exe  of  ourn,  when  Charles's 

neck  gut  split. 
Opened  a  gap  thet  ain't  bridged  over 

yit: 
Slav'ry's  your  Charles,  the  Lord  hez 

gin  the  exe"  — 
"Our    Charles,"    sez    I,  "hez    gut 

eight  million  necks. 
The  hardest  question  ain't  the  black 

man's  right, 
The  trouble  is  to    'mancipate    the 

white ; 
One's  chained  in  body  an'  can  be  sot 

free. 
But  t' other's  chained  in  soul  to  an 

idee  : 
It's  a  long  job,  but  we  shall  worry 

thru  it ; 
Ef    bag'nets   fail,  the  spellin'-book 

must  du  it." 
"Hosee,"   sez  he,  "I  think  you're 

goin'  to  fail : 
The  rettlesnake  ain't  dangerous  in 

the  tail ; 
This  'ere  rebellion's  nothin'  but  the 

rettle,  — 
You'll    stomp    on    thet    an'    think 

you've  won  the  bettle ; 
It's    Slavery  thet's    the    fangs    an' 

thinkin'  head. 
An'  ef  you  want  selvation,  cresh  it 

dead, — 
An'   cresh  it  suddin,  or  you'll  larn 

by  waitin' 
Thet  Chance  wun't  stop  to  listen  to 

debatin'  !  — 
"God's  truth!"  sez  1,  — "an'  ef  I 

held  the  club. 
An'  knowed  jes'  where  to  strike,  — 

but  there's  the  rub ! "  — 
"  Strike  soon,"  sez  he,  "  or  you'll  be 

deadly  ailin',  — 
Folks  thet's  af eared  to  fail  are  sure 

o'  failln' ; 
God  hates  your  sneakin'  creturs  thet 

believe 


246 


PARNASSUS. 


He'll  settle  things  they  run  away  an' 

leave! " 
He  brought  his  foot  down  fercely, 

ez  lie  spoke, 
An'  give  me  sech  a  startle  thet  I 

woke. 
J.  K.  Lowell  :  Bbjlow  Papers, 


WHAT  THE  BIRDS  SAID. 

The  birds,  against  the  April  wind. 
Flew  northward,  singing  as  they 

flew; 
They    sang,    "The    land    we    leave 

behind 
Has  swords  for  corn-blades,   blood 

for  dew." 

''  O    wild-birds,     flying    from    the 
South, 
Wliat  saw  and  heard  ye,  gazing 
down?" 
"We    saw  the    mortar's    upturned 
mouth. 
The  sickened  camp,  the  blazing 
town  I 

"Beneath      the     bivouac's      starry 
lamps. 
We  saw  your  march-worn  children 
die; 
In    shrouds    of    moss,    in    cypress 
swamps, 
We  saw  your  dead  uncoflBned  lie. 

"We  heard  the  starving  prisoner's 
sighs ; 
And  saw,  fi-om  line  and  trench, 
your  sons 
Follow  our  flight  with  home-sick  eyes 
Beyond    the     battery's    smoking 
guns." 

"  And  heard  and  saw  ye  only  wrong 
And  pain,"  I  cried,  "  O  wing-worn 
flocks?" 
"  We    heard,"     they    sang,     "  the 
Freedman's  song, 
The    crash    of    Slavery's    broken 
locks ! 

"  We  saw  from  new,  uprising  States 
The     treason  -  nursing     mischief 
spurned, 
A-s,  crowding  Freedom's  ample  gates, 
The  long-estranged    and  lost  re- 
turned. 


"  O'er  dusky  faces,  seamed  and  old. 
And  hands  horn-hard  with  unpaid 
toil. 

With  hope  in  every  rustling  fold, 
We  saw  your  star-dropt  flag  uncoil. 

"And,  struggling  up  through  sounds 
accursed, 
A  grateful  murmur  clomb  the  air, 
A  whisper  scarcely  heard  at  first, 
It  filled  the  listening  heavens  with 
prayer. 

"And  sweet  and  far,  as  from  a  star, 
Replied  a  voice   which  shall  not 
cease, 
Till,  drowning  all  the  noise  of  war, 
It    sings    the     blessed     song     of 
peace!" 

So  to  me,  in  a  doubtful  day 
Of     chill     and      slowly-greening 
spring. 
Low  stooping  from  the  cloudy  gray. 
The  wild-birds  sang  or  seemed  to 
sing. 

They  vanished  in  the  misty  air, 

■    The  song  went  with  them  in  their 

flight; 
But  lo !  they  left  the  sunset  fair. 
And   in    the    evening    there   was 
light. 

Whittier. 


A  LOYAL  WOMAN'S  NO. 

No!    is  my  answer  from   this  cold 
bleak  ridge 
Down  to  your  valley:    you   may 
rest  you  there : 
The  gulf  is  wide,  and  none  can  build 
a  bridge 
That    your    gross    weight    would 
safely  hither  bear. 

Pity  me,  if  you  will.     I  look  at  you 
With  something  that  is  kinder  far 
than  scorn. 
And  think,  "Ah  well!  I  might  have 
grovelled  too ; 
I  might  have  walked   there,  fet- 
tered and  forsworn." 

I  am  of  nature  weak  as  others  are*, 
I  might  have  chosen  comfortable 
ways; 


HEROIC. 


247 


Once  from  these  heights  I  shrank, 
beheld  afar, 
In    the    soft    lap    of    quiet,   easy 
days. 

I    might  —  (I    will    not    hide  it)  — 
once  I  might 
Have  lost,  in  the  warm  whirlpools 
of  your  voice. 
The  sense  of  Evil,  the  stern  cry  of 
Right ; 
But  truth  has  steered  me  free,  and 
I  rejoice : 

Not  with   the  triumph    that   looks 
back  to  jeer 
At  the  poor  herd  that  call  their 
misery  bliss ; 
But  as  a  mortal  speaks  when  God  is 
near, 
I  drop  you  down  my  answer ;  it  is 
this :  — 

I  am  not  yours,  because  you  seek  in 
me 
What  is  the  lowest  in  my  own  es- 
teem : 
Only    my    flowery    levels    can    you 
see, 
Kor  of  my  heaven-smit  summits 
do  you  dream. 

I  am  not  yours,  because  you  love 
yourself: 
Your  heart  has  scarcely  room  for 
me  beside. 
I  could  not  be  shut  in  with  name 
and  pelf ; 
I  spurn  the  shelter  of  your  narrow 
pride ! 

Not  yours ;  because  you  are  not  man 
enough 
To  grasp  your  country's  measure 
of  a  man ! 
If    such    as  you,   when    Freedom's 
ways  are  rough, 
Cannot  walk  in  them,  learn  that 
women  can ! 

Not  yours,  because,  in  this  the  na- 
tion's need. 
You  stoop  to  bend  her  losses  to 
your  gain, 
And  do  not  feel  the  meanness  of 
your  deed ; 
I  touch  no  palm  defiled  with  such 
a  stain ! 


Whether  man's  thought  can  find  too 
lofty  steeps 
For  woman's  scaling,  care  not  I 
to  know; 
But  when  he  falters  by  her  side,  or 
creeps. 
She  must  not  clog  her  soul  with 
him  to  go. 

Who  weds  me  must  at  least  witli 
equal  pace 
Sometimes  move  witli  me  at  my 
being's  height: 
To  follow  him  to  his  more  glorious 
place. 
His  purer  atmosphere,  were  keen 
delight. 

You  lure  me  to    the  valley:   men 
should  call 
Up  to  the  mountains,  where  the 
air  is  clear. 
Win  me  and  help  me  climbing,  if  at 
all! 
Beyond   these  peaks  rich  harmo- 
nies I  hear,  — 

The  morning  chant  of  Liberty  and 
Law! 
The  dawn  pours  in,  to  wash  out 
Slavery's  blot: 
Fairer  than  aught  •  the  bright  sun 
ever  saw 
Rises   a  nation  without  stain  or 
spot. 

The  men  and  women  mated  for  that 
time 
Tread  not  the  soothing  mosses  of 
the  plain ; 
Their  hands  are  joined  in  sacrifice 
sublime ; 
Their  feet  firm  set  in  upward  paths 
of  pain. 

Sleep  your  thick  sleep,  and  go  your 
drowsy  way ! 
You  cannot  hear  the  voices  in  the 
air! 
Ignoble  souls  will  shrivel  in    that 
day: 
The  brightness  of  its  coming  can 
you  bear  ? 

For  me,  I  do  not  walk  these  hills 
alone : 
Heroes  who  poured  their  blood  out 
for  the  Truth, 


248 


PARNASSUS. 


Women  whose  hearts  bled,  martyrs 
all  unknown, 
Here  catch  the  sunrise  of  immor- 
tal youth 

On  their  pale  cheeks  and  consecrat- 
ed brows ! 
It  charms  me  not,  —  your  call  to 
rest  below : 
I  press   their  hands,   my  lips    pro- 
nounce their  vows : 
Take  my  life's  silence  for  your  an- 
swer: No. 

Lucy  Lakcom. 


THE  BAY  FIGHT.* 

♦'  On  the  forecastle.  Ulf  the  Red 

Watched  the  lashing  of  the  ships  — 

*  If  the  Serpent  lies  so  far  ahead, 
We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here,' 
Said  he." 

Three  days  through  sapphire  seas 
w^e  sailed, 
The  steady  Trade  blew  strong  and 
free, 
The  Northern    Light    his    banners 

paled. 
The  Ocean  Stream  our  channels  wet, 

We  rounded  low  Canaveral's  lee, 
And  passed  the  isles  of  emerald  set 
In  blue  Bahama's  turquoise  sea. 

By  reef  and  shoal  obscurely  mapped, 
And  hauntings  of  the  gray  sea-wolf, 

The  palmy  Western  Key  lay  lapped 
In  the  warm  washing  of  the  Gulf. 

But  weary  to  the  hearts  of  all 
The    burning    glare,    the    barren 

reach 
Of  Santa  Rosa's  withered  beach, 

And  Pensacola's  ruined  wall. 

And  weary  was  the  long  patrol. 
The  thousand  miles  of  shapeless 
strand. 

From  Brazos  to  San  Bias  that  roll 
Their  drifting  duues  of  desert  sand. 

Yet  coast-wise  as  we  cruised  or  lay, 
The  land-breeze  still  at  nightfall 
bore, 
By  beach  and  fortress-guarded  bay, 
Sweet    odors    from    the    enemy's 
shore, 

•  Mobile  Bay,  Aug.  5, 1864. 


Fresh  from  the  forest  solitudes, 
•  Unchallenged  of  his  sentry  lines,  — 
The  bursting  of  his  cypress' buds, 
And   the  warm  fragrance  of  his 
pines. 

Ah,  never  braver  bark  and  crew, 
Nor  bolder  Flag  a  foe  to  dare. 

Had  left  a  wake  on  ocean  blue 
Since  Lion-Heart  sailed  Trenc-le- 
mer !  * 

But  little  gain  by  that  dark  ground 
Was   ours,   save,  sometime,  freer 
breath 
For    friend     or    brother    strangely 
found, 
'Scaped  from  the  drear  domain  of 
death. 

And  little  venture  for  the  bold, 
Or  laurel  for  our  valiant  Chief, 
Save  some  blockaded  British  thief. 

Full  fraught  with    murder  in    his 
hold, 

Caught  unawares  at  ebb  or  flood. 
Or  dull  bombardment,  day  by  day, 
With  fort  and  earth-work,  far  away, 

Low  couched  in  sullen  leagues  of 
mud. 

A  weary  time,  — but  to  the  strong 
The  day  at  last,  as  ever,  came ; 

And  the  volcano,  laid  so  long, 
Leaped  forth  in  thunder  and  in 
flame! 

*'  Man  your  starboard  battery!" 

Kimberly  shouted ;  — 
The  ship,  with  her  hearts  of  oak. 
Was  going,  'mid  roar  and  smoke, 

On  to  victory ! 
None  of  us  doubted. 
No,  not  our  dying,  — 
Farragut's  Flag  was  flying! 

Gaines  growled  low  on  our  left, 

Morgan  roared  on  our  right ;  — 
Before  us,  gloomy  and  fell. 
With  breath  like  the  fume  of  hell, 
Lay  the  Dragon  of  iron  shell, 
Di-iven  at  last  to  the  fight ! 

Ha,  old  ship !  do  they  thrill. 
The  brave  two  hundred  scars 

*  The  flag-ship  of  Richard  I. 


HEROIC. 


249 


You  got  ill  the  River-Wars  ? 
That  were  leeched  with  clamorous 
skill, 

(Surgery  savage  and  hard,) 
Splinted  with  bolt  and  beam, 
Probed  in  scarfing  and  seam, 

Rudely  linted  and  tarred 
With  oakum  and  boiling  pitch, 
And  sutured  with  splice  and  hitch, 

At  the  Brooklyn  Navy-Yard ! 

Our  lofty  spars  were  down. 
To  bide  the  battle's  frown, 
(Wont  of  old  renown)  — 
But  every  ship  was  drest 
In  her  bravest  and  her  best. 

As  if  for  a  July  day; 
Sixty  flags  and  three, 

As  we  floated  up  the  bay  — 
At  every  peak  and  mast-head  flew 
The  brave  Red,  White,  and  Blue,  — 

We  were  eighteen  ships  that  day. 

With  hawsers  strong  and  taut. 
The  weaker  lashed  to  port, 

On  we  sailed  two  by  two  — 
That  if  either  a  bolt  should  feel 
Crash  through  caldron  or  wheel, 
Fin  of  bronze,  or  sinew  of  steel, 

Her  mate  might  bear  her  through. 

Forging  boldly  ahead. 
The  great  Flag-Ship  led, 

Grandest  of  sights ! 
On  her  lofty  mizzen  flew 
Our  Leader's  dauntless  Blue, 
That    had    waved     o'er    twenty 
fights ; 
So  we  went,  with  the  first  of  the 
tide. 
Slowly,  'mid  the  roar 
Of  the  rebel  guns  ashore 
And  the  thunder  of  each  full  broad- 
side. 

Ah,  how  poor  the  prate 
Of  statute  and  state 

We  once  held  with  these  fellows ! 
Here,  on  the  flood's  pale-green, 

Hark  how  he  bellows, 

Each  bluff  old  Sea-Lawyer! 
Talk  to  them  Dahlgren, 

Parrott,  and  Sawyer ! 

On,  in  the  whirling  shade 
Of  the  cannon's  sulphury  breath, 
We  drew  to  the  Line  of  Death 

That  our  devilish  Foe  had  laid,  — 


Meshed  in  a  horrible  net. 
And  baited  villanous  well. 

Right  in  our  path  were  set 
Three  hundred  traps  of  hell ! 

And  there,  O  sight  forlorn ! 
There,  while  the  cannon 

Hurtled  and  thundered,  — 
(Ah,  what  ill  raven 
Flapped  o'er  the  ship  that  morn!)  — 
Caught  by  the  under-death. 
In  the  drawing  of  a  breath 
Down  went  dauntless  Craven, 
He  and  his  hundred ! 

A  moment  we  saw  her  turret, 

A  little  heel  she  gave. 
And  a  thin  white  spray  went  o'er 
her. 

Like    the    crest    of    a    breaking 
wave ; — 
In  that  great  iron  coffin. 

The  channel  for  their  grave. 

The  fort  their  monument, 
(Seen  afar  in  the  offing,) 
Ten  fathom  deep  lie  Craven 

And  the  bravest  of  our  brave. 

Then,  in  that  deadly  track, 
A  little  the  ships  held  back, 

Closing  up  in  their  stations ;  — 
There  are  minutes  that  fix  the  fate 
Of  battles  and  of  nations, 
(Christening  the  generations) 
When  valor  were  all  too  late, 
If    a    moment's    doubt    be    har- 
bored ;  — 
From  the  main-top,  bold  and  brief, 
Came  the  word  of  our  grand    old 
chief,  — 
"  Go  on !  "  —  'twas  all  he  said, — 
Our  helm  was  put  to  starboard, 
And  the  Hartford  passed  ahead. 

Ahead  lay  the  Tennessee, 

On  our  starboard  bow  he  lay, 
With  his  mail-clad  consorts  three, 

(The  rest  had  run  up  the  Bay,)  — 
There  he  was,  belching  flame  from 

his  bow. 
And  the   steam    from    his  throat's 

abyss 
Was  a  Dragon's  maddened  hiss ;  — 

In  sooth  a  most  cursed  craft !  — 
In  a  sullen  ring,  at  bay. 
By  the  Middle  Ground  they  lay. 

Raking  us,  fore  and  aft. 


250 


PARNASSUS. 


Trust  me,  our  berth  was  hot, 
Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot  — 

How  their  death-bolts  howled  and 
stung ! 
And  the  water-batteries  played 
With  their  deadly  cannonade 

Till  the  air  around  us  rung; 

So  the  battle  raged  and  roared;  — 

Ah,  had  you  been  aboard 
To  have  seen  the  fight  we  made ! 

How  they  leaped,  the    tongues    of 
flame, 

From  the  cannon's  fiery  hp ! 
How  the  broadsides,  deck  and  frame, 

Shook  the  great  ship ! 

And  how  the  enemy's  shell 
Came  crashing,  heavy  and  oft, 
Clouds  of  splinters  flying  aloft 

And  falling  in  oaken  showers;  — 
But  ah,  the  pluck  of  the  crew! 

Had  you  stood  on  that  deck  of  ours, 
You  had  seen  what  men  may  do. 

Still,  as  the  fray  grew  louder, 

Boldly  they  worked  and  well  — 
Steadily  came  the  powder, 

Steadily  came  the  shell. 
And  if  tackle  or  truck  found  hurt. 

Quickly  they  cleared  the  wreck  — 
And  the  "dead  were  laid  to  port, 

All  a-row,  on  our  deck. 

Never  a  nerve  that  failed. 

Never  a  cheek  that  paled. 
Not  a  tinge  of  gloom  or  pallor;  — 

There  was  bold  Kentucky's  grit. 
And  the  old  Virginian  valor, 

And  the  daring  Yankee  wit. 

There  were    blue    eyes    from  turfy 
Shannon, 
There  were  black  orbs  from  palmy 
Niger,  — 
But  there,  alongside  the  cannon, 
Each  man  fought  like  a  tiger ! 

A  little,  once,  it  looked  ill, 

Our  consort  began  to  burn  — 
They  quenched  the  flames  with  a  will, 
But  our  men  were  falling  still, 
And  still  the  fleet  was  astern. 

Right  abreast  of  the  Fort 
In  an  awful  shroud  they  lay, 
Broadsides  thundering  away. 

And  lightning  from  every  port; 


Scene  of  glory  and  dread  I 
A  storm-cloud  all  aglow 

With  flashes  of  fiery  red, 
The  thunder  raging  below. 

And  the  forest  of  flags  o'erhead ! 

So  grand  the  burly  and  roar, 
So  fiercely  their  broadsides  blazed, 

The  regiments  fighting  ashore 
Forgot  to  fire  as  they  gazed. 

There,  to  silence  the  Foe, 

Moving  grimly  and  slow, 
They  loomed  in  that  deadly  wreath. 

Where      the     darkest      batteries 
frowned,  — 

Death  in  the  air  all  round. 
And  the  black  torpedoes  beneath ! 

And  now,  as  we  looked  ahead. 

All  for'ard,  the  long  white  deck. 
Was  growing  a  strange  dull  red  — 

But  soon,  as  once  and  again 
Fore  and  aft  we  sped, 

(The  firing  to  guide  or  check,) 
You  could  hardly  choose  but  tread 

On  the  ghastly  human  wreck, 
(Dreadful  gobbet  and  shred 

That  a  minute  ago  were  men !) 

Red,  from  main-mast  to  bitts ! 
'     Red,  on  bulwark  and  wale. 
Red,  by  combing  and  hatch, 
Red,  o'er  netting  and  vail ! 

And  ever,  with  steady  coUf 
The  ship  forged  slowly  by,  — 

And  ever  the  crew  fought  on. 
And  their  cheers  rang  loud  and  high. 

Grand  was  the  sight  to  see 
How  by  their  guns  they  stood. 

Right  in  front  of  our  dead. 
Fighting  square  abreast,  — 
Each  brawny  arm  and  chest 

All  spotted  with  black  and  red. 
Chrism  of  fire  and  blood ! 

Worth  our  watch,  dull  and  sterile. 
Worth  all  tlie  weary  time. 

Worth  the  woe  and  the  peril, 
To  stand  in  that  strait  sublime ! 

Fear  ?    A  forgotten  form ! 

Death  ?    A  dream  of  the  eyes ! 
We  were  atoms  in  God's  great  storm 

That  roared  through    the    angry 

skies. 


HEROIC. 


251 


One  only  doubt  was  ours, 

One  only  dread  we  knew,  — 
Could  the  day  that  dawned  so  well 
Go  down  for  the  Darker  Powers? 

Would  the  fleet  get  through  ? 
And  ever  the  shot  and  shell 
Came  with  the  howl  of  hell, 
The  splinter-clouds  rose  and  fell, 

And    the    long    line    of    corpses 
grew,  — 

Would  the  fleet  win  through  ? 

They  are  men  that  never  will  fail, 
(liow  aforetime  they've  fought!) 

But  Murder  may  yet  prevail,  — 
They  may  sink  as  Craven  sank. 

Therewith  one  hard  fierce  thought, 

Burning  on  heart  and  lip, 

Ran  like  fire  through  the  ship,  — 
Fight  her,  to  thelast  plank ! 

A  dimmer  renown  might  strike 
If  Death  lay  square  alongside,  — 

But  the  Old  Flag  has  no  like, 
She  must  fight,  whatever  betide ;  — 

"When  the  War  is  a  tale  of  old. 

And  this  day's  story  is  told, 

They  shall  hear  how  the  Hartford 
died! 

But  as  we  ranged  ahead, 

And  the  leading  ships  worked  in, 

Losing  their  hope  to  win, 
The  enemy  turned  and  fled  — 
And  one  seeks  a  shallow  reach ; 

And  another,  winged  in  her  flight, 

Our  mate,   brave    Jouett,    brings , 
in ;  — 

And  one,  all  torn  in  the  fight, 
Runs  for  a  wreck  on  the  beach, 

Where  her  flames  soon  fire    the 
night. 

And  the  Ram,  when  well  up  the  Bay, 

And   we  looked    that    our  stems 
should  meet, 
(He  had  us  fair  for  a  prey,) 
Shifting  his  helm  midway. 

Sheered  off,  and  ran  for  the  fleet ; 
There,  without  skulking  or  sham, 

He  fought  them,  gun  for  gun. 
And  ever  he  sought  to  ram. 

But  could  finish  never  a  one. 

From  the  first  of  the  iron  shower 
Till  we  sent  our  parting  shell, 

'Twas  just  one  savage  hour 
Of  the  roar  and  the  rage  of  hell. 


With  the  lessening  smoke  and  thun- 
der. 
Our  glasses  around  we  aim,  — 
What  is  that  burning  yonder  ? 
Our    Philippi  —  aground    and    in 
flame! 

Below,  'twas  still  all  a-roar. 
As  the  ships  went  by  the  shore, 

But  the  fire  of  the  Fort  had  slacked, 
(So  fierce  their  volleys  had  been)  — 
And  now,  with  a  mighty  din. 
The  whole  fleet  came  grandly  in, 

Though      sorely      battered      and 
wracked. 

So,  up  the  Bay  we  ran, 

The  Flag  to  port  and  ahead  — 
And  a  pitying  rain  began 

To  wash  the  lips  of  our  dead. 

A  league  from  the  Fort  we  lay, 
And  deemed  that  the  end  must 
lag,— 

^Vlien  lo !  looking  down  the  Bay, 
There  flaunted  the  Rebel  Rag ;  — 

The  Ram  is  again  under  way 
And  heading  dead  for  the  Flag ! 

Steering  up  with  the  stream. 

Boldly  his  course  he  lay, 
Though  the  fleet  all  answered  his 

fire, 
And,  as  he  still  drew  nigher, 
Ever  on  bow  and  beam 
Our  Monitors  pounded  away ;  — 
How    the    Chickasaw   hammered 
away! 

Quickly  breasting  the  wave, 

Eager  the  prize  to  win. 
First  of  us  all  the  brave 

Monongahela  went  in 
Under  full  head  of  steam ;  — 
Twice  she  struck  him  abeam, 
Till  her  stem  was  a  sorry  work, 

(She  might  have  run  on  a  crag!) 
The  Lackawana  hit  fair. 
He  flung  her  aside  like  cork. 

And  still  he  held  for  the  Flag. 

High  in  the  mizzen  shroud, 

("Lest    the  smoke  his  sight  o'er- 
whelm,) 

Our  Admiral's  voice  rang  loud, 
"  Hard-a-starboard  your  helm ! 

Starboard !  and  run  him  down !  " 


252 


PARNASSUS. 


Starboard  it  was,  — and  so, 
Like  a  black  squall's  lifting  frown, 
Our  mighty  bow  bore  down 

On  tlie  iron  beak  of  the  Foe. 

We  stood  on  the  deck  together, 
Men  that  had  looked  on  death 

In  battle  and  stormy  weather,  — 
Yet  a  little  we  held  our  breath, 
When,  with  the  hush  of  death, 

The  great  ships  drew  together. 

Our  Captain  strode  to  the  bow, 
Drayton,  courtly  and  wise, 
Kindly  cynic,  and  wise, 

(You  hardly  had  known  him  now, 
The  flame  of  fight  in  his  eyes !)  — 

His  brave  heart  eager  to  feel 

How  the  oak  would  tell  on  the  steel ! 

But,  as  the  space  grew  short, 
A  little  he  seemed  to  shun  us. 

Out  peered  a  form  grim  and  lanky, 
And  a  voice  yelled  —  "  Hard-a-port ! 

Hard-a-port! — here's    the    damned 
Yankee 
Coming  right  down  on  us ! " 

He  sheered,  but  the  ships  ran  foul 
With  a  gnarring  shudder  and  growl : 

He  gave  us  a  deadly  gun ; 
But,  as  he  passed  in  iiis  pride, 
(Rasping  right  alongside!) 

The  Old  Flag,  in  thunder-tones. 
Poured  in  her  port  broadside, 
Rattling  his  iron  hide. 

And  cracking  his  timber  bones ! 

Just  then,  at  speed  on  the  Foe, 

With  her  bow  all  weathered  and 
brown. 

The  great  Lackawana  came  down 
Full  tilt,  for  another  blow;  — 
We  were  forging  ahead, 

She    reversed  —  but,  for   all    our 
pains. 
Rammed  the  old  Hartford,  instead, 

Just  for'ard  the  mizzen  chains ! 

Ah !  how  the  masts  did  buckle  and 
bend, 

And  the  stout  hull  ring  and  reel. 
As  she  took  us  right  on  end ! 

(Vain  were  engine  and  wheel. 

She  was  under  full  steam )  — 
With  the  roar  of  a  thunder-stroke 
Her  two  thousand  tons  of  oak 

Brought  up  on  us,  right  abeam ! 


A  wreck,  as  it  looked,  we  lay,  — 
(Rib  and  plank  shear  gave  way 

To  the  stroke  of  that  giant  wedge !) 
Here,  after  all,  we  go  — 
The  old  ship  is  gone !  —  ah,  no, 

But  cut  to  the  water's  edge. 

Never  mind  then,  —  at  him  again ! 

His  flurry  now  can't  last  long; 
He'll  never  again  see  land,  — 
Try  that  on  him,  Marchand ! 

On  him  again,  brave  Strong ! 

Heading  square  at  the  hulk. 
Full  on  his  beam  we  bore ; 

But  the  spine  of  the  huge  Sea-Hog 

Lay  on  the  tide  like  a  log. 
He  vomited  flame  no  more. 

By  this,  he  had  found  it  hot ;  — 
Half  the  fleet,  in  an  angry  ring, 
Closed  round  the  hideous  Thing, 

Hammering  with  solid  shot. 

And  bearing  down,  bow  on  bow,  — 
He  has  but  a  minute  to  choose ; 

Life  or  renown  ?  —  which  now 
Will  the  Rebel  Admiral  lose  ? 

Cruel,  haughty,  and  cold, 

He  ever  was  strong  and  bold ;  — 

Shall  he   shrink  from   a  wooden 
stem  ? 
He  will  think  of  that  brave  band 
He  sank  in  the  Cumberland ;  — 

Ay,  he  will  sink  like  them. 

Nothing  left  but  to  fight 
Boldly  his  last  sea-fight ! 

Can  he  strike?    By  Heaven,  'tis 
true! 

Down  comes  the  traitor  Blue, 
And  up  goes  the  captive  White ! 

Up  went  the  White !    Ah,  then 
The  hurrahs  that,  once  and  again, 
Rang  from  three  thousand  men 

All  flushed  and  savage  with  fight! 
Our  dead  lay  cold  and  stark, 
But  our  dying,  down  in  the  dark. 

Answered  as  best  they  might. 
Lifting  their  poor  lost  arms, 

And  cheering  for  God  and  Right  I 

Ended  the  mighty  noise. 
Thunder  of  forts  and  ships. 
Down  we  went  to  the  hold,  — 

Oh,  our  dear  dying  boys ! 


HEROIC. 


253 


How  we  pressed  their  poor  brave 
lips, 

(Ah,  so  pallid  and  cold!) 
And  held  their  hands  to  the  last 

(Those  that  had  hands  to  hold.) 

Still  thee,  O  woman  heart ! 

(So  strong  an  hour  ago)  — 
If  the  idle  tears  must  start, 

'Tis  not  in  vain  they  flow. 

They  died,  our  children  dear, 
On    the    drear    berth  -  deck    they 
died,  — 
Do  not  think  of  them  here  — 
Even  now  their  footsteps  near 
The  immortal,  tender  sphere  — 
(Land  of  love  and  cheer! 
Home  of  the  Crucified !) 

And  the  glorious  deed  survives. 

Our  threescore,  quiet  and  cold, 
Lie  thus,  for  a  myriad  lives 

And  treasure-millions  untold,  — 
(Labor  of  poor  men's  lives, 
Hunger  of  weans  and  wives, 

Such  is  war-wasted  gold. ) 

Our  ship  and  her  fame  to-day 

Shall  float  on  the  storied  Stream 
When  mast  and  shroud  have  crum- 
bled away. 
And  her    long  white    deck    is    a 
dream. 

One  daring  leap  in  the  dark. 
Three  mortal  hours,  at  the  most,  — 

And  hell  lies  stiff  and  stark 
On  a  hundred  leagues  of  coast. 

For  the  mighty  Gulf  is  ours,  — 
The  bay  is  lost  and  won. 
An  Empire  is  lost  and  won ! 
Land,  if  thou  yet  hast  flowers, 
Twine  them  in  one  more  wreath 

Of  tenderest  white  and  red, 
(Twin  buds  of  glory  and  death !) 
For  the  brows  of  our  brave  dead,  — 
For  thy  Navy's  noblest  Son. 

Joy,  O  Land,  for  thy  sons, 
Victors  by  flood  and  field ! 

The  traitor  walls  and  guns 
Have  nothing  left  but  to  yield ;  — 
(Even  now  they  surrender!) 

And  the  ships  shall  sail  once  more. 
And  the  cloud  of  war  sweep  on 


To  break  on  the  cruel  shore ;  — 
But  Craven  is  gone, 
He  and  his  hundred  are  gone. 

The  flags  flutter  up  and  down 
At  sunrise  and  twilight  dim, 

The  cannons  menace  and  frown,  — 
But  never  again  for  him, 
Him  and  the  hundred. 

The  Dahlgrens  are  dumb, 
Dumb  are  the  mortars ; 

Never  more  shall  the  drum 
Beat  to  colors  and  quarters,  — 
The  great  guns  are  silent. 

O  brave  heart  and  loyal ! 

Let  all  your  colors  dip ;  — 

Mourn  him,  proud  ship ! 
From  main  deck  to  royal. 

God  rest  our  Captain, 

Rest  our  lost  hundred ! 

Droop,  flag  and  pennant  I 

What  is  your  pride  for  ? 

Heaven,  that  he  died  for, 
Rest  our  Lieutenant. 

Rest  our  brave  threescore ! 

O  Mother  Land !  this  weary  life 
We  led,  we  lead,  is  'long  of  thee; 

Thine  the  strong  agony  of  strife, 
And  thine  the  lonely  sea. 

Thine  the  long  decks  all  slaughter- 
sprent. 
The  weary  rows  of  cots  that  lie 
With  wrecks  of  strong  men,  marred 
and  rent, 
'Neath  Pensacola's  sky. 

And  thine  the  iron  caves  and  dens 
Wherein    the  flame  our  war-fleet 
drives ; 
The    fiery  vaults,   whose  breath  is 
men's 
Most  dear  and  precious  lives ! 

Ah,  ever,  when  with  storm  sublime 
Dread  Nature  clears  our  murky 
air. 

Thus  in  the  crash  of  falling  crime 
Some  lesser  guilt  must  share. 

Full  red  the  furnace  fires  must  glow 
That  melt  the  ore  of  mortal  kind : 

The  Mills  of  God  are  grinding  slow, 
But  ah,  how  close  they  grind ! 


254 


PARNASSUS. 


To-Day  the  Dalilgren  and  the  drum 
Are  dread  Apostles  of  His  Name ; 

His  Kingdom  here  can  only  come 
By  chrism  of  blood  and  flame. 

Be  strong :  already  slants  the  gold 
Athwart    these  wild  and  stormy 
skies ; 
From  out  this  blackened  waste,  be- 
hold 
What  happy  homes  shall  rise ! 

But  see  thou  well  no  traitor  gloze, 
No  striking  hands  with  Death  and 
Shame, 

Betray  the  sacred  blood  that  flows 
So  freely  for  thy  name. 

And  never  fear  a  victor  foe :  — 
Thy  children's  hearts  are  strong 
and  high ; 
Nor  mourn  too  fondly;  —  well  they 
know 
On  deck  or  field  to  die. 

Nor  Shalt   thou  want    one  willing 
breath, 
Though,  ever  smiling  round  the 
brave, 
The  blue  sea  bear  us  on  to  death. 
The  green  were  one  wide  grave. 

U.  S.  Flag-ship  Hartford,  Mobile  Bay, 
August,  1864. 

H.  H.  Bbownell. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

FOULLY  ASSASSINATED  APRIL  14, 


You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lin- 
coln's bier, 
You^  who  with    mocking   pencil 
wont  to  trace, 
Broad  for  the  self-complacent  British 
sneer. 
His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his 
furrowed  face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his    un- 
kempt, bristling  hair. 
His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill 
at  ease. 
His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair. 
Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art 
to  please ; 


YoUy  whose  smart  pen  backed  up  the 
pencil's  laugh, 
Judging  each  step  as  though  the 
way  were  plain ; 
Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  para- 
graph 
Of  chief's  perplexity,  or  people's 
pain : 

Beside  this  corpse,  that   bears  for 
winding-sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to 
rear  anew, 
Between  the  mourners  at  his  head 
and  feet. 
Say,  scurrile  jester,  is  there  room 
for  you  9 

Yes :  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  from 
my  sneer. 
To  lame  my  pencil,  and  confute 
my  pen ;  — 
To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes 
peer. 
This  rail-splitter  a  true-born  king 
of  men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learned 
to  rue. 
Noting  how  to  occasion's  height 
he  rose ; 
How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth 
seem  more  true ; 
How,  iron-like,  his  temper  grew  by 
blows. 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful  he 
could  be : 
How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill,  the 
same: 
Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful 
he. 
Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for 
fame. 

He  went  about  his  work, —  such  work 
as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart 
and  hand,  — 
le  who  kno 
task  to  do, 
Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's 
go6d  grace  command ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the 
burden  grow, 
That  God  makes   instruments  to 
work  his  will, 


HEROIC. 


255 


If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to 
know, 
Nor  tamper  witli   the  weights  of 
good  and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the 
side 
That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's 
and  Right's, 
As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had 
plied 
His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's 
thwarting  mights,  — 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken 
soil, 
The  iron-bark,  that  turns  the  lum- 
berer's axe. 
The  rapid,  that  o'erbears  the  boat- 
man's toil, 
The  prairie,  hiding  the  mazed  wan- 
derer's tracks, 

"ifhe    ambushed    Indian,    and    the 
prowling  bear;  — 
Such  were  the  deeds  that  helped 
his  youth  to  train : 
Rough  culture, — but  such  trees  large 
fruit  may  bear, 
If    but  their  stocks    be  of    right 
girth  and  grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  work  to 
do, 
And  lived  to  do  it :  four  long-suf- 
fering years' 
Ill-fate,    ill-feeling,    ill-report,  lived 
through, 
And   then    he    heard    the    hisses 
change  to  cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to 
praise, 
And  took  both  with  the  same  un- 
wavering mood : 
Till,  as  he  came  on  light,  from  dark- 
ling days. 
And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal  from 
where  he  stood, 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and 

him. 
Reached  from  behind  his  back,  a 

trigger  prest,  — 
A-nd  those    perplexed    and   patient 

eyes  were  dim, 
Those    gaunt,    long-laboring    limbs 

were  laid  to  rest ! 


The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his 
lips. 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his 
pen. 
When    this  vile  murderer  brought 
swift  eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth, 
good-will  to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from 
sea  to  sea. 
Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and 
shame ! 
Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last 
beat  high ; 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  tri- 
umph came. 

A  deed  accurst !    Strokes  have  been 
struck  before 
By  the  assassin's    hand,  whereof 
men  doubt 
If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they 
bore; 
But  thy  foul   crime,  like   Cain's, 
stands  darkly  out. 

Yile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on 
a  strife, 
Whate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and 
nobly  striven ; 
And  with  the  martyr's  crown  crown- 
est  a  life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be 
forgiven. 

Tom  Taylor  in  Punch. 


IN  STATE. 

I. 

O  Keeper  of  the  Sacred  Key, 
And  the  Great  Seal  of  Destiny, 
Whose  eye  is  the  blue  canopy. 
Look  down  upon  the  warring  world, 
and  tell  us  what  the  end  will 
be. 

"Lo,  through  the  wintry  atmos- 
phere. 
On  the  white  bosom  of  the  sphere, 
A  cluster  of  five  lakes  appear ; 
And  all  the  land  looks  like  a  couch, 
or  warrior's  shield,  or  sheeted 
bier. 


256 


PARNASSUS. 


"And  on  that  vast  and    hollow 

field, 
With   both  lips  closed   and  both 

eyes  sealed, 
A  mighty  Figure  is  revealed,  — 
Stretched  at  full   length,   and  stiff 

and  stark,  as  in  the  hollow  of 

a  shield. 

"  The  winds  have  tied  the  drifted 

snow 
Around  the  face  and  chin ;  and  lo, 
The  sceptred  Giants  come  and  go, 
And  shake  their    shadowy  crowns 

and  say :  '  We  always  feared  it 

would  be  so  r 

"She  came  of  an  heroic  race: 
A   giant's    strength,    a   maiden's 

grace, 
Like  two  in  one  seem  to  embrace, 
And  match,  and   blend,   and    thor- 
ough-blend,   in    her    colossal 
form  and  face. 

"  Where  can  her  dazzling  falchion 

be? 
One  hand  is  fallen  in  the  sea ; 
The  Gulf-Stream  drifts  it  far  and 

free ; 
And  in  that  hand  her  shining  brand 

gleams  from    the  depths  re- 

splendently. 

"  And  by  the  other,  in  its  rest. 
The  starry  banner  of  the  West 
Is  clasped  forever  to  her  breast ; 
And  of  her  silver  helmet,  lo,  a  soar- 
ing eagle  is  the  crest. 

"And  on  her   brow,  a  softened 

light, 
As  of  a  star  concealed  from  sight 
By  some  thin  veil  of  fleecy  white. 
Or  of  the  rising  moon  behind  the 

raining  vapors  of  the  night. 

"  The    Sisterhood    that    was    so 
sweet. 

The  Starry  System  sphered  com- 
plete, 

WTiich  the  mazed  Orient  used  to 
greet. 
The  Four  and  Thirty  fallen  Stars 
glimmer   and   glitter   at   her 
feet. 


"And  over  her,  — and  over  all. 
For  panoply  and  coronal,  — 
The  mighty  Immemorial, 
And  everlasting  Canopy  and  Starry 
Arch  and  Shield  of  All." 


n. 


"  Three  cold,  bright  moons  have 
marched  and  wheeled ; 

And  the  white  cerement  that  re- 
vealed 

A  Figure  stretched  upon  a  Shield, 
Is  turned  to  verdure ;  and  the  Land 
is  now  one  mighty  Battle- 
field. 

"And  lo,  the  children  which  she 

bred, 
And  more  than  all  else  cherished. 
To  make  them  true  in  heart  and 

head. 
Stand  face  to  face,  as  mortal  foes, 

with     their     swords     crossed 

above  the  dead. 

"  Each  hath  a  mighty  stroke  and 

stride : 
One  true, — the  more  that  he  is 

tried ; 
The  other  dark  and  evil-eyed ;  — 
And  by  the  hand  of  one  of  them,  his 

own  dear  mother  surely  died ! 

"  A  stealthy  step,  a  gleam  of  hell,  — 
It  is  the  simple  truth  to  tell,  — 
The  Son  stabbed  and  the  Mother 

fell: 
And  so  she  lies,  all  mute  and  pale, 

and  pure  and  irreproachable ! 

"And    then    the    battle-trumpet 

blew; 
And  the  true  brother  sprang  and 

drew 
His    blade    to    smite  the    traitor 

through ; 
And  so  they  clashed  above  the  bier, 

and  the  Night  sweated  bloody 

dew. 

"And  all  their  children,  far  and 

wide. 
That  are  so  greatly  multiplied, 
Rise  up  in  frenzy  and  divide; 
And  choosing,  each  whom  he  will 

serve,  unsheathe  the  sword  and 

take  their  side. 


HEROIC. 


257 


"And  in  the  low  sun's  bloodshot 

rays, 
Portentous  of  the  coming  days, 
The  Two  great  Oceans  blush  and 
blaze, 
With   the    emergent    continent  be- 
tween them,  wrapt  in  crimson 
haze. 

"  Now  whichsoever  stand  or  fall, 
As  God  is  great,  and  man  is  small. 
The  Truth  shall  triumph  over  all  : 
Forever  and  forevermore,  the  Truth 
shall  triumph  over  all!" 


III. 


"  I  see  the  champion  sword-strokes 

flash ; 
I  see  them  fall  and  hear  them  clash ; 
I  hear  the  murderous  engines  crash ; 
I  see  a  brother  stoop  to  loose  a  foe- 
man-brother's  bloody  sash. 

*'  I  see  the  torn  and  mangled  corse, 
The  dead    and  dying  heaped    in 

scores. 
The  headless  rider  by  his  horse. 
The     wounded    captive     bayoneted 

through  and  through  without 

remorse. 

"  I  hear  the  dying  sufferer  cry. 
With  his  crushed  face  turned  to 

the  sky, 
I  see  him  crawl  in  agony 
To  the  foul  pool,  and  bow  his  head 

into  its  bloody  slime,  and  die. 

"I  see  the  assassin  crouch  and 

fire, 
I  see  his  victim  fall,  —  expire ; 
I  see  the  murderer  creeping  nigher 
To   strip  the  dead.     He    turns  the 

head,  —  the  face !     The    son 

beholds  his  sire ! 

"  I  hear  the  curses  and  the  thanks ; 
I  see  the  mad  charge  on  the  flanks. 
The  rents,  the  gaps,  the   broken 

ranks. 
The  vanquished    squadrons  driven 

headlong    down    the    river's 

bridgeless  banks. 

"  I  see  the  death-gripe  on  the  plain. 
The    grappling   monsters   on   the 
main, 

17 


The  tens  of  thousands  that  are 
slain, 
And  all  the  speechless  suffering  and 
agony  of  heart  and  brain. 

*'  I  see  the  dark  and  bloody  spots. 
The  crowded  rooms  and  crowded 

cots. 
The   bleaching  bones,   the  battle 

blots,  — 
And  writ  on  many  a  nameless  grave, 

a  legend  of  forget-me-nots. 

"I  see  the  gorged  prison-den, 
The  dead  line  and  the  pent-up  pen, 
The  thousands  quartered  in  the  fen, 
The  living-deaths  of  skin  and  bone 

that  were  the  goodly  shapes 

of  men. 

"And  still  the  bloody  Dew  must 
fall ! 

And  His  great  Darkness  with  the 
Pall 

Of  His  dread  Judgment  cover  all, 
Till  the  Dead  Nation  rise  Trans- 
formed by  Truth  to  triumph 
over  all!" 

"And   Last  —  and  Last  I    see  — 

The  Deed." 
Thus  saith  the  Keeper  of  the  Key, 
And  the  Great  Seal  of  Destiny, 
Wliose  eye  is  the  blue  canopy. 
And  leaves  the  Pall  of  His  great  Dark- 
ness over  all  the  Land  and  Sea. 

FOKCEYTHE  WlLLSON. 


REQUIEM. 

Breathe,    trumpets,  breathe  slow 

notes  of  saddest  wailing ; 
Sadly  responsive    peal,  ye    muffled 

drums. 
Comrades,  with  downcast  eyes  and 

muskets  trailing. 
Attend    him    home:    the    youthful 

warrior  comes. 

Upon  his  shield,  upon  his  shield  re- 
turning, 

Borne  from  the  field  of  battle  where 
he  fell. 

Glory  and  grief  together  clasped  in 
mourning. 

His  fame,  his  fate,  with  sobs  exult- 
ing tell. 


258 


PARNASSUS. 


Wrap  round  his  breast  the  flag  his 

breast  defended,  — 
His  country's  flag,  in  battle's  front 

unrolled : 
For  it  he  died,  —  on  earth  forever 

ended. 
His  brave  young  life  lives  in  each 

sacred  fold. 

With  proud,  proud  tears,  by  tinge  of 

shame  untainted, 
Bear  him,  and  lay  him  gently  in  his 

grave. 
Above  the  hero  write,  the  young, 

half-sainted, 
*'  His  country  asked  his  life,  his  life 

he  gave." 

Geoege  Lunt. 


ODE. 

[Sung  on  the  occasion  of  decorating  the 
graves  of  the  Confederate  dead,  at  Mag- 
nolia Cemetery,  Charleston,  S.C] 

Sleep    sweetly    in    your    humble 
graves,  — 

Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause ! 
Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 

The  pilgrim  here  to  pause, 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 
Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied 
tombs, 
Behold!    your     sisters    bring    their 
tears. 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

Small  tributes !  but  your  shades  will 
smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to- 
day, 
Than  when  some  cannon-mouldered 
pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned ! 

Henky  Timrod. 


COMMEMORATION  ODE. 

HARVARD    UNIVERSITY,   JULY    21, 

1866. 


Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field. 
So  generous  is  Fate ; 
But  then  to  stand  beside  her. 
When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms,  and  not  to 
yield,  — 
This    shows,    methinks,    God's 

plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed    like     the     old    heroic 

breeds. 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  man- 
hood's solid  earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for 
his  birth. 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength 
he  needs. 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had 

led. 
With  ashes  on  her  head. 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry 

grief : 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I 

turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat 

and  burn. 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world- 
lionored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote : 
For  him  her  Old- World  moulds  aside 
she  threw. 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from 

the  breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero 

new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of 
God,  and  true. 
How  beautiful  to  see 
Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind 

indeed, 
Who  loved    liis    charge,  but  never 

loved  to  lead ; 
One  whose  meek  flock   the  people 
joyed  to  be, 


HEROIC. 


259 


Not    lured    by    any    cheat    of 

birth, 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human 
worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 
They  knew  that  outward  grace 

is  dust ; 
They    could    not    choose    but 
trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfalter- 
ing skill. 
And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring 
again  and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak 

of  mind. 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our 

cloudy  bars, 
A  seamark  now,  now  lost  in  va- 
pors blind; 
Broad     prairie    rather,    genial, 

level-lined, 
Fruitful    and    friendly    for    all 
human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  Heaven  and  loved  of 
loftiest  stars. 
Nothing  of  Europe  here. 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  morn- 
ward  still, 
Ere    any    names    of    Serf    and 

Peer 
Could    Nature's    equal   scheme 

deface ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder 
race. 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked 
with  us  face  to  face. 
I  praise  him  not;   it  were  too 
late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there 

must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  can- 
not wait. 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide. 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sub- 
lime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns 

and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the 

hour. 
But  at  last  silence  comes : 
These  all  are   gone,  and,  standing 
like  a  tower, 


Our     children     shall     behold    his 
fame. 
The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foresee- 
ing man. 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise, 
not  blame. 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first 
American. 


We    sit    here    in   the    Promised 

Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey 

and  milk ; 
But  'twas  they  won  it,  sword  in 
hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us 
as  silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and 

our  best;  — 
Ah,  me !  not  all !  some  come  not 
with  the  rest. 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as 

any  here ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with 
my  strain. 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 
And  will  not  please  the  ear ; 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they 
wane 
Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the 

gaps. 
Thinking  of   dear  ones  whom  the 

dumb  turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died 
to  gain : 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  liv- 
ing, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving ; 
I  with  uncovered  head 
Salute  the  sacred  dead. 
Who  went,  and  who  return  not.  — 

Say  not  so ! 
'Tis  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that 

repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by 

the  way ; 
Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in 

the  grave ; 
No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the 
brave ; 
And  to  the  saner  mind 
We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  staid 
behind. 


260 


PARNASSUS. 


Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations 
blow! 

For  never  shall  their  aureoled  pres- 
ence lack : 

I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 

With     ever-youthful     brows     that 
nobler  show ; 

We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shin- 
ing track ; 
In  every  nobler  mood 

We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit 
glow, 

Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 

Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration ; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 

Secure  from  change  in  their  high- 
hearted ways. 

Beautiful  evermore,    and  with  the 
rays 

Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of 
Expectation  I 


Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride, 
Pure   from    passion's    mixture 

rude 
Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 
But  with  far-heard  gratitude, 
Still  with   heart  and  voice  re- 
newed. 
To  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs 
dead. 
The  strain  should  close  that  conse- 
crates our  brave. 
Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head ! 
Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 
Not  without  a  martial  ring, 
Not  without  a  prouder  tread 
And  a  peal  of  exultation : 
Little  right  has  he  to  sing 
Through  whose  heart  in  such  an 

hour 
Beats  no   march    of   conscious 

power. 
Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation ! 
'Tis  no  Man  we  celebrate, 
By  his  country's  victories  great, 
A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of 
Fate, 
But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a 

Nation 
Drawing  force  from  all  her  men. 
Highest,     humblest,     weakest, 

all. 
For  her  day  of  need,  and  then 
Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower 


Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely 

tall. 
Touched    but    in    passing    by    her 

mantle-hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for 
'tis  her  dower! 
How  could  poet  ever  tower, 
If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears. 
If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears. 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  peo- 
ple? 
Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds 

and  waves ! 
Clash  out,   glad  bells,   from   every 

rocking  steeple ! 
Banners,  adance  with  triumph,  bend 
your  staves ! 
And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let   beacon-fire    to    answering 

beacon  speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  White- 
face  he. 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea 
to  sea, 

Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 
Across  a  kindling  continent, 
Making  earth  feel  more  firm  and  air 

breathe  braver : — 
''  Be  proud !  for  she  is  saved,  and  all 
have  helped  to  save  her ! 
She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood 

of  the  poor. 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open 

door, 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for 

all  mankind! 
The  fire  is  dreadful  in  lier  eyes 

no  more ; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm 

she  doth  unbind. 
Send  all  her  handmaid  armies 

back  to  spin. 
And  bid  her  navies  that  so  lately 

hurled 
Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their 

thunders  in. 
Swimming   like   birds   of    calm 

along  the  unharniful  shore. 
No  challenge  sends  she  to  the 

elder  world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated ; 

a  light  scorn 
Plays  on  her  mouth,  as  round 

her  mighty  knees 
She  calls'lier  children  back,  and 
waits  the  morn 
Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between 
her  subject  seas." 


HEROIC. 


261 


Bow  down,  dear  Land,  for  tliou 
hast  found  release ! 

Thy  God,  in  these  distempered 
days, 

Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wis- 
dom of  his  ways, 

And  through  thine  enemies  hath 
wrought  thy  peace ! 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise ! 

O  Beautiful !  my  Country !  ours 
once  more ! 

Smoothing  thy  gold  of   war-di- 
shevelled hair 

O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never 
other  wore, 
And  letting  thy  set  lips. 
Freed     from    wrath's    pale 
eclipse, 

The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay 
bare. 

What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of 
poet 

Could  tell  our  love  and  make 
thee  know  it. 

Among  the  Nations  bright  be- 
yond compare  ? 

What  were  our   lives  without 
thee? 

What    all    our   lives    to    save 
thee? 

We    reck   not   what    we    gave 
thee; 

We    will    not    dare    to    doubt 
thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will 
dare! 

J.  R  Lowell. 


CHICAGO. 

OCT.  10,  1871. 

Blackened  and  bleeding,  helpless, 

panting,  prone, 
On  the  charred  fragments  of   her 

shattered  throne 
Lies  she  who  stood   but  yesterday 

alone. 

Queen  of   the  West!  by  some  en- 
chanter taught 
To  lift  the  glory  of  Aladdin's  court, 
Then  lose  the  spell  that  all    that 
wonder  wrought. 

Like    her   own    prairies   by    some 

chance  seed  sown. 
Like  her  own  prairies  in  one  brief 

day  grown. 
Like  her  own  prairies  in  one  fierce 

night  mown. 

She  lifts  her  voice,  and  in  her  plead- 
ing call 

We  hear  the  cry  of  Macedon  to 
Paul, 

The  cry  for  help  that  makes  her  kin 
to  all. 

But  haply  with  wan  fingers  may  she 

feel 
The  silver  cup  hid  in  the  proffered 

meal. 
The  gifts  her  kinship  and  our  loves 

reveal. 

Bbet  Haute. 


VI 


PORTRAITS.  -  PERSONAL. 
PICTURES. 


•*  Who  will  not  honor  nohle  nnmbers,  when 
Verses  outlive  the  bravest  deeds  of  men?  "— Hebbick. 


POETEAITS-PEESOTsTAL-PICTUEES. 


NEBUCHADNEZZAR 

There  was  a  king  that  much  might, 
Who  Nabugodonosor  hight. 
To  his  empire  and  to  his  laws, 
As  who  saith,  all  in  thilke  dawes 
Were  obeisant,  and  tribute  bear. 
As  tho'  God  of  earth  he  were : 
Till  that  the  high  king  of  kings 
Which  seeth  and  knoweth  all  things, 
Whose  eye  may  nothing  asterte, 
The  privates  of  man's  heart 
They  speken  and  sound  in  his  ear 
As  though  they  loud  winds  were,  — 
He  took  vengeance  of  his  pride. 

GowER :  Confessio  Amantis. 


NESTOR  TO  HECTOR 

Nestor.  —  I  have,  thou  gallant  Tro- 
jan, seen  thee  oft. 

Laboring  for  destiny,  make  cruel 
way 

Through  ranks  of  Greekish  youth: 
and  I  have  seen  thee, 

As  hot  as  Perseus,  spur  thy  Phrygian 
steed. 

Despising  many  forfeits  and  subdue- 
ments, 

When  thou  hast  himg  thy  ad- 
vanced sword  i'  the  air. 

Not  letting  it  decline  on  the  de- 
clined : 

That  I  have  said  to  some  my  stand- 
ers-by, 

Lo,  Jupiter  is  yonder,  dealing  life  ! 

And  I  have  seen  thee  pause,  and  take 
thy  breath 

When  that  a  ring  of  Greeks  have 
hemmed  thee  in. 

Like  an  Olympian  wrestling:  This 
have  I  seen 


But    this  .  thy    countenance,    still 

locked  in  steel, 
I  never  saw  till  now. 

Let  an  old  man  embrace  thee : 
And,   worthy  warrior,  welcome  to 
our  tents. 

Shakspearb. 


CORIOLANUS. 

Cominius.  —  I  shall  lack  voice ;  the 

deeds  of  Coriolanus 
Should  not  be  uttered  feebly.  —  It  is 

held, 
That  valor  is  the  chiefest   virtue, 

and 
Most  dignifies  the  haver :  if  it  be, 
The  man  I  speak  of  cannot  in  the 

world 
Be  singly  counterpoised.    At  sixteen 

years. 
When  Tarquin  made    a   head   for 

Rome,  he  fought 
Beyond    the  mark  of    others:   our 

then  dictator. 
Whom  with  all  praise  I  point  at, 

saw  him  fight 
When  with  his  Amazonian  chin  he 

drove 
The  bristled  lips  before  him :  he  be- 

strid 
An  o'erpressed  Roman,  and  in  the 

consul's  view 
Slew  three  opposers:  Tarquin's  self 

he  met. 
And  struck  him  on  his  knee :  in  that 

day's  feats. 
When  he  might  act  the  woman  in 

the  scene. 
He  proved  best  man  of  the  field,  and 

for  his  meed 
Was  brow-bound  with  the  oak.    His 

pupil  age 

265 


266 


PAKNASSUS. 


Man-entered  thus,  he  waxfed  like  a 

sea; 
And,  in  the  brunt  of  seventeen  bat- 
tles since, 
He  lurched  all  swords  o'  the  garland. 
For  this  last, 

Before  and  in  Corioli,  let  me  say, 
I    cannot    speak    him    home.      He 

stopped  the  fliers ; 
And,  by  his  rare  example,  made  the 

coward 
Turn  terror  into  sport :  as  waves  be- 
fore 
A  vessel  under  sail,  so  men  obeyed. 
And  fell  below  his  stem^  his  sword 

(death's  stamp). 
Where  it  did  mark  it  took;  from 

face  to  foot 
He  was  a  thing  of  blood,  whose  every 

motion 
Was  timed  with  dying  cries ;  alone 

he  entered 
The  mortal  gate  o'  the  city,  which 

he  painted 
With  shunless  destiny,  aidless  came 

off, 
And  with  a  sudden  re-enforcement 

struck 
Corioli,  like  a  planet:  now  all's  his: 
When  by  and  by  the  din  of  war  'gan 

pierce 
His  ready  sense:  then  straight  his 

doubled  spirit 
Re-quickened  what  in  flesh  was  fati- 

gate. 
And  to  the  battle  came  he;  where 

he  did 
Run  reeking  o'er  the  lives  of  men, 

as  if 
'Twere  a  perpetual  spoil;  and  till  we 

called 
Both  field  and  city  ours,  he  never 

stood 
To  ease  his  breast  with  panting. 

Our  spoils  he  kicked  at. 
And  looked  upon  things  precious,  as 

they  were 
The  common  muck  o'  the  world ;  he 

covets  less 
Than  misery  itself  would  give;  re- 
wards 
His  deeds  with  doing  them ;  and  is 

content 
To  spend  the  time  to  end  it. 
His  nature  is  too  noble  for  the 

world : 
He  would  not  flatter  Neptune  for  his 

trident, 


Or  Jove  for  his  power  to  thunder. 

His  heart's  his  mouth : 
What   his    breast    forges,   that    his 

tongue  must  vent ; 
And,  being  angry,does  forget  that  ever 
He  heard  the  name  of  death. 

Shakspeabe. 

CORIOLANUS  AT  ANTIUM. 

Coriolanus. — Hear'st  thou.  Mars! 
Avfidius. — Name    not    the    god, 

thou  boy  of  tears  — 
Cor.—  Ha! 

Auf.  —  No  more. 
Cor.  —  Measureless  liar,  thou  hast 

made  my  heart 
Too  great  for  what  contains  it.     Boy ! 

O  slave! — 
Pardon  me,  lords,  'tis  the  first  time 

that  ever 
I  was  forced  to  scold.    Your  judg- 
ments, my  grave  lords, 
Must  give  this  cur  the  lie :  and  his 

own  notion 
(Who  wears  my  stripes  impressed  on 

him ;  that  must  bear 
My  beating  to  his  grave)  shall  join  to 

thrust 
The  lie  unto  him. 
Cut  me  to  pieces,  Volsces ;  men  and 

lads. 
Stain  all  your  edges  on  me.  —  Boy ! 

False  hound ! 
If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true, 

'tis  there. 
That  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 
Fluttered  your  Volsces  in  Corioli : 
Alone  I  did  it.  —  Boy ! 

Shakspeabe. 


THE  BLACK  PRINCE. 

French  King.  —  Think   we    King 

Harry  strong ; 
And,  princes,  look  you  strongly  arm 

to  meet  him. 
The    kindred    of    him    hath    been 

fleshed  upon  us ; 
And  he  is  bred  out  of  that  bloody 

strain, 
That  haunted  us  in  our  familiar  paths : 
Witness  our  too  much  memorable 

shame. 
When  Cressy  battle  fatally  was  struck, 
And  all  our  princes  captived,  by  the 

hand 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


267 


Of  that  black  name,  Edward,  black 

prince  of  Wales ; 
Whiles  that  his  mountain  sire,  —  on 

mountain  standing, 
Up  in  the  air,  crowned  with  a  golden 

sun,  — 
Saw  his  heroical  seed,  and  smiled  to 

see  him 
Mangle  the  work  of  nature,  and  deface 
The  patterns  that  by  God  and  by 

French  fathers 
Had  twenty  years  been  made.    This 

is  a  stem 
Of  that  victorious  stock ;  and  let  us 

fear 
The  native  mightiness  and  fate  of 

him. 

Shakspeabe. 


HENRY  Y. 

Canterbury.  —  The  king  is  full  of 

grace  and  fair  regard. 
Ely.  —  And  a  true  lover  of    the 

holy  church. 
Cant.  —  The  courses  of  his  youth 
promised  it  not. 

The  breath  no  sooner  left  his  father's 
body. 

But  that  his  wildness,  mortified  in 
him. 

Seemed  to  die  too ;  yea,  at  that  very- 
moment. 

Consideration  like  an  angel  came, 

And  whipped  the  offending  Adam 
out  of  him ; 

Leaving  his  body  as  a  paradise. 

To    envelop    and    contain    celestial 
spirits. 

Never  was  such  a  sudden  scholar 
made: 

Never  came  reformation  in  a  flood, 

With  such  a  heady  current,  scouring 
faults ; 

Nor  never  hydra-headed  wilfulness 

So  soon  did  lose  his  seat,  and  all  at 
once, 

AS  in  this  king. 

Hear  him  but  reason  in  divinity, 

And,  all-admiring,  with  an  inward 
wish 

You  would   desire,   the  king  were 
made  a  prelate ; 

Hear  him  debate  of  commonwealth 
affairs, 

You  would  say, — it  hath  been  all- 
in-all  his  study : 


List  his  discourse  of  war,  and  you 
shall  hear 

A  fearful  battle  rendered    you    in 
music : 

Turn  him  to  any  cause  of  policy, 

The  Gordian  knot  of  it  he  will  un- 
loose, 

Familiar  as  his  garter;  that,  when 
he  speaks. 

The  air,   a  chartered    libertine,    is 
still, 

And  the  mute  wonder  lurketh  in 
men's  ears, 

To  steal  his  sweet  and  honeyed  sen- 
tences ; 

So  that  the  air  and  practic  part  of 
life 

Must  be  the  mistress  to  this  theoric : 

Which  is  a  wonder,  how  his  grace 
should  glean  it. 

Since  his  addiction  was  to  courses 
vain : 

His  companies  unlettered,  rude,  and 
shallow ; 

His  hours  filled  up  with  riots,  ban- 
quets, sports. 

And  never  noted  in  him  any  study. 

Any  retirement,  any  sequestration 

From  open  haunts  and  popularity. 
Shakspeabe. 


SPENSER  AT  COURT. 

Full,  little  knowest  thou,  that  hast 
not  tried. 

What  hell  it  is,  in  suing  long  to  bide : 

To  loose  good  dayes  that  might  be 
better  spent ; 

To  waste  long  nights  in  pensive  dis- 
content ; 

To  speed  to-day,  to  be  put  back  to- 
morrow ; 

To  feed  on  hope,  to  pine  with  feare 
and  sorrow ; 

To  have  thy  prince's  grace,  yet  want 
her  peers ; 

To  have  thy  asking,  yet  waite  many 
yeares ; 

To  fret  thy  soule  with  crosses  and 
with  cares ; 

To  eate  thy  heart  through  comfort- 
less despairs ; 

To  fawn,  to  crouch,  to  wait,  to  ride, 
to  run. 

To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  to  be 
undone. 

Spenseb. 


268 


PARNASSUS. 


ON  LUCY,  COUNTESS  OF  BED- 
FORD. 

This  morning,   timely  rapt  with 

holy  fire, 
I  thought  to  form  unto  my  zealous 

Muse 
What  kind  of  creature  I  could  most 

desire 
To  honor,  serve,  and  love,  as  poets  use. 
I  meant  to  make  her  fair,  and  free, 

and  wise. 
Of  greatest  blood,  and  yet  more 

good  than  great ; 
I  meant  the    Day-Star  should  not 

brighter  rise, 
Nor  lend  like  influence  from  his  lu- 
cent seat. 
I  meant  she  should  be  courteous, 

facile,  sweet, 
Hating  that  solemn  vice  of  great- 
ness, pride; 
I  meant  each  softest  virtue  there 

should  meet 
Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  reside. 
Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 
I  purposed  her,  that  should,  with 

even  powers. 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  shears 

control 
Of  Destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free 

hours. 
Such  when  I  meant  to  feign,  and 

wished  to  see, 
My  Muse  bade  Bedford  write,   and 

that  was  she. 

Ben  Jonson. 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

A  SWEET,  attractive  kind  of  grace, 

A  full  assurance  given  by  looks. 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face, 
The  lineaments  of  Gospel  books  I 
I  trow,  that  countenance  cannot 

lie 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in 
the  eye. 

Was  ever  eye  did  see  that  face, 

Was  ever  ear  did  hear  that  tongue. 
Was  ever  mind  did  mind  his  grace 
That  ever  thought  the  travel  long  ? 
But  eyes  and  ears,  and   every 

thought, 
Were  with  his  sweet  perfections 
caught. 

Matthew  Royden. 


EPITAPH  ON  SHAKSPEARE. 

What  needs  my  Shakspeare  for  hig 
honored  bones. 

The  labor  of  an  age  in  piled  stones  ? 

Or  that  his  hallowed  relics  should 
be  hid 

Under  a  star-y-pointing  pyramid  ? 

Dear  son  of  Memory,  great  heir  of 
fame, 

What  need'st  thou  such  weak  wit- 
ness of  thy  name  ? 

Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonish- 
ment 

Hast  built  thyself  a  live  long  monu- 
ment. 

For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow- 
endeavoring  art 

Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that 
each  heart 

Hath  from  the  leaves  of   thy  un- 
valued book 

Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  im- 
pression took, 

Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  be- 
reaving, 

Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much 
conceiving ; 

And  so  sepulchred  in  such   pomp 
dost  lie, 

That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would 
wish  to  die. 

Milton. 

EPITAPH. 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lye 
As  much  beauty  as  could  dye ; 
Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 
To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 
If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 
Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 
One  name  was  Elizabeth  — 
The  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death : 
Fitter,  where  it  dyed  to  tell. 
Than  that  it  lived  at  all.  Farewell ! 
Ben  Jonson. 


TRANSLATION   OF    COWLEY'S 
EPIGRAM  OK  FRANCIS  DRAKE. 

The    stars    above  will   make    thee 
known. 
If  man  were  silent  here ; 
The  sun  himself  cannot  forget 
His  fellow-traveller. 

Ben  Jonson. 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


269 


EPITAPH. 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse,  — 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother. 
Death !  ere  thou  hast  killed  another 
Fair,  and  learned,  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

Ben  Jonson. 


EPIGRAM. 

UVEDALE,  thou  piece  of  the  first 

.  times,  a  man 
Made    for  what   Nature    could,   or 

Virtue  can ; 
Both    whose    dimensions    lost,  the 

world  might  find 
Restored  in  thy  body,  and  thy  mind ! 
Who  sees  a  soul  in  such  a  body  set. 
Might  love  the  treasure  for  the  cabi- 
net. 
But  I,  no  child,  no  fool,  respect  the 

kind 
The  full,  the  glowing  graces  there 

enshrined, 
Which,  (would  the  world  not  miscall 

it  flattery, ) 
I  could  adore,  almost  to  idolatry. 

Ben  Jonson. 


TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  RUT- 
LAND. 

There,  like  a  rich  and  golden  pyra- 
mid. 
Borne  up  by  statues,  shall  I  rear 

your  head 
Above  your  under-carved  ornaments. 
And  show  how  to  the  life  my  soul 

presents 
Your  form  imprest  there,  not  with 

tickling  rhymes 
Or  common-places  filched,  that  take 

these  times. 
But  high  and  noble  matter,  such  as 

flies 
From  brains  entranced,   and   filled 

with  ecstasies. 
Moods  which  the  god-like  Sidney  oft 

did  prove. 
And  your  brave  friend  and  mine  so 

well  did  love. 

Ben  Jonson. 


TO  WILLIAM  SIDNEY,  ON  HIS 
BIRTHDAY. 

Give  me  my  cup,  but  from  the  Thes- 
pian well, 
That  I  may  tell  to  Sidney,  what 
This  day  doth  say. 
And  he  may  think  on  that 
Which  I  do  tell 
When  all  the  noise 
Of  these  forced  joys 
Are  fled  and  gone, 
And  he  with  his  best  genius  left  alone. 


'Twill  be  exacted  of  your  name  whose 

son. 
Whose    nephew,   whose   grandchild 

you  are ; 
And  men  will  then 
Say  you  have  followed  far. 
When  well  begun : 
Which  must  be  now :  they  teach  you 

how ; 
And  he  that  stays 
'  ve  until  t< 

two  days. 
Then 
The  birthday  shines,  when  logs  not 

burn,  but  men. 

Ben  Jonson. 


PRAYER  TO   BEN   JONSON. 

When  I  a  verse  shall  make, 
Know  I  have  prayed  thee. 
For  old  religion's  sake. 
Saint  Ben,  to  aid  me. 

Make  the  way  smooth  for  me, 
When  I,  thy  Herrick, 
Honoring  thee,  on  my  knee 
Offer  my  lyric. 

Candles  I'll  give  to  thee, 
And  a  new  altar ; 
And  thou.  Saint  Ben,  shalt  be 
Writ  in  my  psalter. 

Herrick. 


TO    LIVE    MERRILY,  AND    TO 
TRUST  TO  GOOD  VERSES. 

Now  is  the  time  for  mirth. 
Nor  cheek  or  tongue  be  dumb ; 

For  the  flowry  earth, 
The  golden  pomp  is  come. 


270 


PARNASSUS. 


The  golden  pomp  is  come ; 

For  now  each  tree  does  wear, 
Made  of  her  pap  and  gum, 

Rich  beads  of  amber  here. 

Now  reigns  the  Rose,  and  now 
The  Arabian  dew  besmears 

My  uncontrolled  brow, 
And  my  retorted  hairs. 

Homer !  this  health  to  thee. 

In  sack  of  such  a  kind. 
That  it  would  make  thee  see, 

Though  thou  wert  ne'er  so  blind. 

Next,  Virgil  I'll  call  forth. 
To  pledge  this  second  health 

In  wine,  whose  each  cup's  worth 
An  Indian  commonwealth. 

A  goblet  next  I'll  drink 

To  Ovid ;  and  suppose 
Made  he  the  pledge,  he'd  think 

The  world  had  all  one  nose. 

Then  this  immensive  cup 

Of  aromatic  wine, 
Catullus,  I  quaff  up 

To  that  terse  muse  of  thine. 

Wild  I  am  now  with  heat, 
O  Bacchus !  cool  thy  rays ; 

Or  frantic  I  shall  eat 
Thy  Thyrse,  and  bite  the  Bays. 

Round,  round,  the  roof  does  run; 

And  being  ravisht  thus. 
Come,  I  will  drink  a  tun 

To  my  Propertius. 

Now,  to  Tibullus  next. 
This  flood  I  drink  to  thee ; 

But  stay,  I  see  a  text. 
That  tills  presents  to  me. 

Behold  1    Tibullus  lies 

Here  burnt,  whose  small  return 
Of  ashes  scarce  suffice 

To  fill  a  little  urn. 

Trust  to  good  verses  then ; 

They  only  will  aspire. 
When  pyramids,  as  men. 

Are  lost  in  the  funeral  fire. 

And  when  all  bodies  meet 
In  Lethe,  to  be  drowned ; 

Then  only  numbers  sweet. 
With  endless  life  are  crowned. 

Hekbick. 


SONNET. 

ON  HIS  BEING  ARRIVED  TO  THE  AGE 
OF  TWENTY-THREE. 

How  soon  hath   Time,   the    subtle 

thief  of  youth. 
Stolen  on  his   wing  my  three  and 
twentieth  year ! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full 

career. 
But    my  late    spring    no  bud  or 
blossom  show'th. 
Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive 
the  truth. 
That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so 

near. 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much 

less  appear. 
That    some    more    timely-happy 
spirits  indu'th. 
Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  meas- 
ure even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean 
or  high. 
Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and 
the  will  of  Heaven : 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so. 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-master's 
eye. 

Milton. 


ODE  TO  BEN  JONSON. 

Ah  Ben! 
Say  how  or  when 
Shall  we,  thy  guests. 
Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts, 

Made  at  the  Sun, 
The  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun ; 
Wliere  we  such  clusters  had 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad ; 
And  yet  each  verse  of  thine 
Outdid  the  meat,  outdid  the  frolic 
wine. 

My  Ben! 
Or  come  again. 

Or  send  to  us 
Thy  wit's  great  overplus; 

But  teach  us  yet 
Wisely  to  husband  it, 
Lest  we  that  talent  spend : 
And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 

That  precious  stock,  the  store 
Of  such  a  wit,  the  world  should  have 
no  more, 

Heerick. 


PORTRAITS.  —PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


271 


TO  SIR  HENRY  VANE. 

Vane,  young  in  years,  but  in  sage 

counsel  old, 
Than    whom    a    better   senator 

ne'er  held 
The  helm  of  Rome,  when  gowns, 

not  arms,  repelled 
The  fierce  Epirot,  and  the  Afri- 
can bold, 
Whether  to  settle  peace,  or  to  unfold 
The  drift  of  hollow  states,  hard 

to  be  spelled ; 
Then  to  advise  how  War  may, 

best  upheld. 
Move  by  her  two  main  nerves, 

iron  and  gold. 
In    all    her    equipage:    besides    to 

know 
Both  spiritual  power  and  civil, 

what  each  means. 
What    severs    each,    thou  hast 

learned,  which  few  have  done: 
The  bounds  of  either  sword  to  thee 

we  owe : 
Therefore    on    thy    firm    hand 

Religion  leans 
In  peace,  and  reckons  thee  her 

eldest  son. 

Milton. 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is 

spent. 
Ere  half  my  days,   in  this  dark 

world  and  wide. 
And    that    one    talent    which    is 

death  to  hide. 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though 

my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and 

present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning 

chide ; 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light 

denied?" 
I    fondly    ask:   But    Patience,  to 

prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  *'  God 

doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,   or  his  own 

gifts ;  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him 

best:  his  state 
Is  kingly;  thousands  at  his  bidding 

speed, 


And    post    o'er  land    and   ocean 

without  rest ; 
They  also   serve  who  only  stand 

and  wait." 

Milton. 

SONNET. 

O,  FOR  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune 
chide. 

The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful 
deeds, 

That  did  not  better  for  my  life  pro- 
vide, 

Than  public  means,   which    public 
maimers  breeds. 

Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  re- 
ceives a  brand. 

And  almost  thence  my    nature    is 
subdued 

To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's 
hand : 

Pity  me  then,  and  wish  I  were  re- 
newed ; 

Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will 
drink 

Potions  of  eyesell,  'gainst  my  strong 
infection : 

No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think, 

Nor  double  penance,  to  correct  cor- 
rection. 
Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I 

assure  ye. 
Even  that  your  pity  is  enough  to 
cure  me. 

Shakspeare. 


PORTRAIT  OF  ADDISON. 

Peace  to  all  such!  but  were  there 

one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame 

inspires ; 
Blest  with  each  talent  and  each  art 

to  please. 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and 

live  with  ease; 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule 

alone, 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near 

the  throne, 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with 

jealous  eyes. 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  him- 
self to  rise ; 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with 

civil  leer, 


272 


PARNASSUS. 


And,   without    sneering,   teach    the 
rest  to  sneer ; 

Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to 
strike, 

Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike ; 

Alike  -reserved  to  blame,  or  to  com- 
mend, 

A  timorous   foe,  and  a    suspicious 
friend ; 

Dreading  even    fools,   by   flatterers 
besieged. 

And  so  obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged ; 

Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws. 

And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause ; 

Whilst  wits  and  Templars  every  sen- 
tence raise, 

And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of 
praise :  — 

Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  one 
there  be  ? 

Who  would  not    weep,  if    Atticus 
were  he  ? 

Pope. 


LINES  TO  ALEXANDER  POPE. 

While  malice,  Pope,  denies  thy  page 
Its  own  celestial  fire ; 
While  critics,  and  while  bards  in  rage. 
Admiring,  won't  admire: 

While  wayward  pens  thy  worth  as- 
sail, 

And  envious  tongues  decry ; 

These  times,  though  many  a  friend 
bewail, 

These  times  bewail  not  I. 

But  when  the  world's  loud  praise  is 

thine, 
And  spleen  no  more  shall  blame : 
When  with  thy  Homer  thou  shalt 

shine 
In  one  unclouded  fame : 

When  none  shall  rail,  and  every  lay 
Devote  a  wreath  to  thee ; 
That  day,  (for  come  it  will,)  that  day 
Shall  I  lament  to  see. 

David  Lewis. 


THE  MAN  OF  ROSS. 

But  all  our  praises  why  should  lords 

engross  ? 
Rise,  honest  muse!    and    sing    the 

Man  of  Ross : 


Pleased  Yaga  echoes   through   her 

winding  bounds. 
And  rapid   Severn  hoarse  applause 

resounds. 
Who  hung  with  woods  yon  moun- 
tain's sultry  brow? 
From  the  dry  rock  who  bade  the 

waters  flow  ? 
Not  to  the  skies  in  useless  columns 

tost, 
Or  in  proud  falls  magnificently  lost, 
But     clear    and     artless,     pouring 

through  the  plain 
Health  to  the  sick,  and  solace  to  the 

swain. 
Whose  causeway  parts  the  vale  with 

shady  rows  ? 
Wliose  seats  the  weary  traveller  re- 
pose ? 
Who    taught   that   heaven-directed 

spire  to  rise  ? 
"  The  Man  of  Ross,"  each  lisping 

babe  replies. 
Behold  the  market-place  with  poor 

o'erspread! 
The  Man  of  Ross  divides  the  weekly 

bread : 
He  feeds  yon  almshouse,  neat,  but 

void  of  state. 
Where  age  and  want  sit  smiling  at 

the  gate : 
Him   portioned  maids,   apprenticed 

orphans  blest, 
The  young  who  labor,  and  the  old 

who  rest. 
Is  any  sick  ?    The  Man  of  Ross  re- 
lieves. 
Prescribes,    attends,    the    medicine 

makes  and  gives. 
Is  there  a  variance?  enter  but  his 

door. 
Balked  are  the  courts,  and  contest  is 

no  more : 
Despairing  quacks  with  curses  fled 

the  place. 
And  vile  attorneys,  now  a  useless  race. 
Thrice  happy  man !  enabled  to  pur- 
sue 
Wliat    all    so    wish   but    want    the 

power  to  do ! 
Oh  say,  what  sums    that  generous 

hand  supply  ? 
What  mines  to  swell  that  boundless 

charity  ? 
Of  debts  and  taxes,  wife  and  children 

clear, 
This  man  possessed  —  five  hundred 

pounds  a  year. 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL,  —  PICTURES. 


273 


Blush  grandeur,  blush !  proud  courts, 
withdraw  your  blaze ; 

Ye  little  stars !  hide  your  diminished 
rays. 

And  what?  no  monument,  inscrip- 
tion, stone, 

His  race,  his  form,  his  name  almost 
unknown  ? 

Who  builds  a  church  to  God,  and 
not  to  fame 

Will  never  mark  the  marble  with  his 
name. 

Pope. 


ELEGY    ON   MISTRESS  ELIZA- 
BETH DRURY. 

She,  of  whose  soul,  if  we  may  say, 
'twas  gold. 

Her  body  was  the  Electrum,  and  did 
hold 

Many  degrees  of  that ;  we  understood 

Her  by  her  sight ;  her  pure  and  elo- 
quent blood 

Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  dis- 
tinctly wrought. 

That  one  might  almost  say,  her  body 
thought. 

She,  she  thus  richly,  largely  housed, 
is  gone. 

And  chides  us  slow-paced  snails  who 
crawl  upon 

Our  prison's  prison.  Earth,  nor 
think  us  well 

Longer  than  whilst  we  bear  our 
little  shell. 


What  hope  have  we  to  know  our- 
selves, when  we 

Know  not  the   least  things  which 
for  our  use  be  ? 

What    Caesar    did,    yea,    and    what 
Cicero  said. 

Why  grass   is    green,   or  why    our 
blood  is  red. 

Are    mysteries    which    none    have 
reached  unto ; 

In  this   low  iorm,  poor  soul,  what 
wilt  thou  do  ? 

O  when  wilt    thou   shake  off  this 
pedantry 

Of  being  caught  by  sense  and  fan- 
tasy? 

Thou    look'st    through    spectacles; 
small  things  seem  great 

Below ;  but  up  into  the  watch-tower 
get, 

38 


And    see    all    things    despoiled   of 

fallacies ; 
Thou  shalt  not  peep  through  lat- 
tices of  eyes, 
Nor  hear  through  labyrinths  of  ears, 

nor  learn 
By  circuit  or  collections  to  discern  ; 
In  heaven  then  straight  know'st  all 

concerning  it. 
And  what    concerns    it    not,   shall 

straight  forget. 
There  thou  but  in  no  other  school 

mayst  be 
Perchance  as  learned  and  as  full  as 

she; 
She,  who  all  libraries  had  thoroughly 

read 
At  home  in  her  own  thoughts,  and 

practised 
So  much  good   as  would  make  as 

many  more. 


Up,  up,  my  drowsy  soul !  where  thy 

new  ear 
Shall  in  the  angels'  songs  no  discord 

hear ; 
Where  thou  shalt  see  the    blessed 

Mother-maid 
Joy  in  not  being  that  which  men 

have  said ; 
Where  she's  exalted  more  for  being 

good. 
Than  for  her  interest  of  Motherhood : 
Up   to   those    Patriarchs,   who    did 

longer  sit 
Expecting  Christ,  than  they've  en- 
joyed him  yet : 
Up    to   "those    Prophets,   who    now 

gladly  see 
Their  prophecies  grown  to  be  history : 
Up  to  the  Apostles,  who  did  bravely 

run 
All    the    sun's    course,   with    more 

light  than  the  sun : 
Up  to  those  Martyrs,  who  did  calmly 

bleed 
Oil  to  the  Apostles'  lamps,  dew  to 

their  seed : 
Up  to  those  Virgins,  who  thought 

that  almost 
They  made  joint-tenants  with  the 

Holy  Ghost, 
If  they  to  any  should  his  Temple 

give: 
Up,  up,  for  in  that  squadron  there 

doth  live 
She  who  hath  carried  thither  new 

degrees, 


274 


PARNASSUS. 


(As  to  their  number,)  to  their  digni- 
ties. 

She  whom  we  celebrate  is  gone  be- 
fore : 

She  who  had  here  so  much  essential 
joy, 

As  no  chance  could  distract,  much 
less  destroy ; 

Who  with  God's   presence  was  ac- 
quainted so, 

(Hearing  and  speaking  to  him,)  as 
to  know 

His  face  in  any  natural  stone  or  tree 

Better  than  when  in  images  they  be : 

Wlio  kept  by  diligent  devotion 

God's  image  in  such  reparation 

Within  her  heart,  that  what  decay 
was  grown 

Was  her  first  Parent's  fault,  and  not 
her  own : 

Who,  being  solicited  to  any  act, 

Still   heard   God   pleading    his  safe 
pre-contract : 

Who,  by  a  faithful  confidence  was 
here 

Betrothed  to  God,  and  now  is  mar- 
ried there : 

Whose  twilights    were    more    clear 
than  our  mid-day; 

Who  dreamed  devoutlier  than  most 
use  to  pray : 

Who  being  here  filled  with  grace, 
yet  strove  to  be 

Both  where  more  grace  and  more 
capacity 

At  once  is  given.    She  to  Heaven  is 
gone. 

Who  made  this  world  in  some  pro- 
portion 

A  Heaven,  and  here  became  unto  us 
all 

Joy,  (as  our  joys  admit,)  essential. 
Donne. 


TO  MILTON. 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at 

this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee :  she  is  a 

fen 
O     stagnant  waters:    altar,   sword, 

and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall 

and  bower. 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English 

dower 


Of  inward  happiness.    We  are  selfish 

men; 
Oh !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  free- 
dom, power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt 

apart : 
Thou    hadst   a  voice  whose  sound 

was  like  the  sea : 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic, 

free. 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common 

way. 
In  cheerful   godliness;  and  yet  thy 

heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

WOKDSWOKTH. 


WHEJ^  THE  ASSAULT  WAS  IN- 
TENDED TO  THE   CITY. 

Captain  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in 

arms, 
Wliose  chance  on  these  defenceless 

doors  may  seize, 
If  deed  of  honor  did  thee  ever  please, 
Guard  them,  and  him  within  pro- 
tect from  harms. 
He  can  requite  thee,  for  he  knows 

the  channs 
That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts 

as  these. 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er 

lands  and  seas, 
Wliatever  clime  the  sun's  bright 

circle  warms. 
Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses' 

bower : 
The    great    Emathian    conqueror 

bid  spare 
The    house    of    Pindarus,    when 

temple  and  tower 
Went  to  the  ground ;  and  the  repeated 

air 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 
To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from 

ruin  bare. 

Milton. 


ROB  ROY'S  GRAVE. 

A  FAMOUS  man  is  Robin  Hood, 
The  English  ballad-singer's  joy! 
And  Scotland  has  a  thief  as  good, 
An  outlaw  of  as  daring  mood ; 
She  has  her  brave  Rob  Roy ! 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


275 


Then  clear  the  weeds  from  off  his 

grave. 
And  let  us  chant  a  passing  stave 
In  honor  of  that  hero  brave ! 

Heaven  gave  Rob  Roy  a  dauntless 

heart, 
And  wondrous  length  and  strength 

of  arm : 
Nor  craved  he  more  to  quell  his  foes, 
Or  keep  his  friends  from  harm. 

Yet  was  Rob  Roy  as  wise  as  brave ; 
Forgive  me  if  the  phrase  be  strong ;  — 
A  poet  worthy  of  Rob  Roy 
Must  scorn  a  timid  song. 

Say,  then,  that  he  was  wise  as  brave ; 
As  wise  in  thought  as  bold  in  deed : 
For  in  the  principle  of  things 
He  sought  his  moral  creed. 

Said  generous  Rob,  "  What  need  of 

books  ? 
Burn    all    the    statutes    and   their 

shelves ; 
They  stir  us  up  against  our  kind ; 
And  worse,  against  ourselves. 

*'  We  have  a  passion,  make  a  law, 
Too  false  to  guide  us  or  control ! 
And  for  the  law  itself  we  fight 
In  bitterness  of  soul. 

"  And,  puzzled,  blinded  thus,  we  lose 
Distinctions  that  are  plain  and  few: 
These  find  I  graven  on  my  heart : 
That  tells  me  what  to  do. 

"The   creatures   see   of    flood   and 

field. 
And  those  that  travel  on  the  wind ! 
With  them  no  strife  can  last :  they 
live 
In  peace,  and  peace  of  mind. 

"For  why?  —  because  the  good  old 

rule 
Sufficeth  them,  the  simple  plan, 
That  they  should  take  who  have  the 

power, 
And  they  should  keep  who  can. 

"A  lesson  which  is  quickly  learned ; 
A  signal  this  which  all  can  see ! 
Thus    nothing    here    provokes    the 
strong 
To  wanton  cruelty. 


"  All  f  reakishness  of  mind  is  checked ; 
He  tamed,  who  foolishly  aspires : 
While  to  the  measure  of  his  migiit 
Each  fashions  his  desires. 

"  All  kinds,  and  creatures,  stand  and 

fall 
By  strength  of  prowess  or  of  wit: 
'Tis   God's   appointment  who  must 

sway, 
And  who  is  to  submit. 

"  Since,   then,  the  rule  of  right  is 

plain, 
And  longest  life  is  but  a  day ; 
To  have  my  ends,  maintain  my  rights, 
I'll  take  the  shortest  way." 

And  thus  among  the  rocks  he  lived. 
Through  summer's  heat  and  winter's 

snow : 
The  eagle,  he  was  lord  above, 
And  Rob  was  lord  below. 

So  was  it  — would,  at  least,  have  been, 
But  through  untowardness  of  fate; 
For  polity  was  then  too  strong; 
He  came  an  age  too  late. 

Or  shall  we  say,  an  age  too  soon  ? 
For,  were  the  bold  man  living  noio, 
How  might  he  flourish  in  his  pride, 
With  buds  on  every  bough ! 

Then  rents  and    factors,   rights  of 
chase, 

Sherfffs,   and  lairds    and   their  do- 
mains, 

Would  all  have  seemed  but  paltry 
things. 
Not  worth  a  moment's  pains. 

Rob  Roy  had  never  lingered  here. 
To  these  few  meagre  vales  confined ; 
But  thought  how  wide  the  world, 
the  times 
How  fairly  to  his  mind. 

And  to  his  sword  he  would  have  said, 
"  Do  thou  my  sovereign  will  enact 
From  land  to  land  through  half  the 
earth ! 
Judge  thou  of  law  and  fact ! 

"  'Tis  fit  that  we  should  do  our  part; 
Becoming,  that  mankind  should  learn 
That  we  are  not  to  be  surpassed 
In  fatherly  concern. 


276 


PARNASSUS. 


"  Of  old  things  all  are  over  old, 

Of    good    things    none    are    good 

enough : — 
We'll  show  that  we  can  help  to  frame 
A  world  of  other  stuff. 

"  I,  too,  will  have  my  kings  that  take 
From  me  the  sign  of  life  and  death ; 
Kingdoms    shall    shift    about    like 
clouds. 
Obedient  to  my  breath." 

And,  if  the  word  had  been  fulfilled. 
As  might  have  been,  then,  thought 

of  joy! 
France  would  have  had  her  present 
boast, 
And  we  our  brave  Rob  Roy ! 

Oh !  say  not  so ;  compare  them  not ; 
I  would  not  wrong  thee,  champion 

brave ! 
Would  wrong  thee  nowhere;  least 
of  all 
Here  standing  by  thy  grave. 

For  thou,  although  with  some  wild 

thoughts. 
Wild  chieftain  of  a  savage  clan ! 
Hadst  this  to  boast  of ;  thou  didst  love 
The  liberty  of  man. 

And,  had  it  been  thy  lot  to  live 
With  us  who  now  behold  the  light. 
Thou  wouldst  have  nobly  stirred  thy- 
self, 
And  battled  for  the  right.       * 

For  thou  wert  still  the  poor  man's 

stay. 
The  poor  man's  heart,  the  poor  man's 

hand ! 
And  all  the  oppressed  who  wanted 

strength 
Had  thine  at  their  command. 

Bear  witness  many  a  pensive  sigh 
Of  thoughtful  herdsman  when  he 

strays 
Alone  upon  Loch  Veol's  heights. 
And  by  Loch  Lomond's  braes! 

And  far  and  near,  through  vale  and 

hill. 
Are  faces  that  attest  the  same. 
And  kindle,  like  a  fire  new  stirred, 
At  sound  of  Rob  Roy's  name. 

Wordsworth. 


TO  CAMPBELL. 

True  bard  and  simple,  —  as  the  race 

Of  heaven-born  poets  always  are, 
When    stooping    from    their   starry 
place 
They're  children  near,  though  gods 
afar. 

Moore. 


STANZAS   TO  *  *  * 

Though  the  day  of   my  destiny's 
over. 
And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  de- 
clined. 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 
The  faults  which  so  many  could 
find. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  de- 
ceive me ; 
Though  woman,   thou   didst   not 
forsake ; 
Though  loved,   thou    foreborest   to 
grieve  me ; 
Though     slandered,    thou    never 
couldst  shake. 

Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  dis- 
claim me ; 
Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly ; 
Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  de- 
fame me. 
Nor  mute  that  the  world  might 
belie. 

In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  spring- 
ing, 
In  the  wild  waste  there  still  is  a 
tree. 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing. 
Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 
Byron. 


OUTWARD  BOUND. 

Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my 

fair  child ! 
Ada !  sole  daughter  of  my  house 

and  heart? 
When  last  I  saw  thy  young  blue 

eyes,  they  smiled. 
And  then  we  parted,  —  not  as  now 

we  part, 
But  with  a  hope.  — 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


277 


Awaking  with  a  start, 
The  waters  heave  around  me ;  and 

on  high 
The  winds  hf  t  up  their  voices :  I 

depart, 
Whither    I    know  not;    but    the 
hour's  gone  by, 
When    Albion's     lessening     shores 
could  grieve  or  glad  mine  eye. 

Once  more  upon  the  waters!  yet 

once  more ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me 

as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome 

to  their  roar ! 
Swift  be    their  guidance,   where- 

soe'er  it  lead! 
Though  the  strained  mast  should 

quiver  as  a  reed, 
And  the  rent    canvas  fluttering, 

strew  the  gale. 
Still  must  I  on;    for  I  am  as  a 

weed, 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  ocean's 

foam,  to  sail 
Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the 

tempest's  breath  prevail. 

Byron. 


LOYE  OF  ENGLAND. 

I've  taught  me  other  tongues,  — 

and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger ;  to 

the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring 

surprise ; 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,  nor  hard 

to  find 
A  country  with,  —  ay,  or  without 

mankind ; 
Yet  was  I  born  where  men  are 

proud  to  be. 
Not  without  cause ;  and  should  I 

leave  behind 
The  inviolate  island  of    the  sage 

and  free. 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  re- 
moter sea,  — 

Perhaps    I    loved    it    well;    and 

should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not 

mine. 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it,  —  if  we 

may 


Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.     I 
twine 

My  hopes  of  being  remembered  in 
my  line 

With  my  land's  language;  if  too 
fond  and  far 

These  aspirations   in  their  scope 
incline,  — 

If  my  fame  should  be  as  my  for- 
tunes are. 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull 
Oblivion  bar 

My  name  from    out   the    temple 

where  the  dead 
Are  honored  by  the  nations  —  let 

it  be,  — 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier 

head ! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on 

me, — 
"Sparta    hath    many  a  worthier 

son  than  he." 

Byron. 


FARE   THEE  WELL. 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  forever. 

Still  forever,  fare  thee  ivell ! 
Even  though  unforgiving,  never 

'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 
Would  that  breast  were  bared  before 
thee 

Where  thy  head  so  oft  has  lain, 
While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er 
thee 

Which    thou    ne'er    canst    know 
again : 
Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced 
over, 

Every  inmost  thought  could  show ! 
Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 

'Twas  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 
Though  the  world  for  this  commend 
thee,  — 

Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 
Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 

Founded  on  another's  woe. 
Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 

Could  no  other  arm  be  found 
Than  the  one  which  once  embraced 
me, 

To  inflict  a  cureless  wound  ? 
Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not; 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay. 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away : 


278 


PARNASSUS. 


Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth ; 
Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding, 
beat ; 
And    the    undying    thought  which 
paineth. 
Is  —  that  we  no  more  may  meet. 
These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 

Than  the  wail  above  the  dead ; 
Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 

Wake  us  from  a  widowed  bed. 
And     when    thou    wouldst    solace 
gather. 
When  our  child's  first  accents  flow. 
Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Fath- 
er!" 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 
When  her  little  hands  shall  press 
thee. 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  pressed. 
Think  of   him  whose  prayer  shall 
bless  thee. 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  blessed ! 
Should  her  lineaments  resemble 

Those  thou  never  more  mayst  see. 
Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 

With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 
All  my  faults  perchance  thou  know- 
est. 
All  my  madness  none  can  know; 
All  my  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest, 
Wliither, — yet  with  thee  they  go. 
Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken ; 
Pride,  which  not  a  world  could 
bow. 
Bows  to  thee,  —  by  thee  forsaken, 
Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now ; 
But  'tis  done,  —  all  words  are  idle,  — 

Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 
But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 
Force  their  way  without  the  will. 
Fare  thee  well !    thus  disunited, 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie. 
Seared  in  heart,  and  love,  and  blight- 
ed,— 
More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 

Byron. 


NO  MORE. 

No    more  —  no   more  —  Oh!    never 
more  on  me 
The  freshness  of  the  heart  can  fall 
like  dew. 
Which  out  of  all  the  lovely  things 
we  see, 
Extracts  emotions  beautiful  and 
new. 


Hived  in  our  bosoms  like  the  bag  o' 

the  bee. 
Think' St    thou    the    honey    with 

those  objects  grew  ? 
Alas!  'twas  not  in  them,  but  in  thy 

power. 
To  double  even  the  sweetness  of  a 

flower. 

No    more  —  no    more  —  Oh !    never 
more,  my  heart, 
Canst  thou  be  my  sole  world,  my 
universe ! 
Once  all  in  all,   but  now   a  thing 
apart. 
Thou  canst  not  be  my  blessing,  or 
my  curse : 
The  illusion's  gone  forever. 

Byron. 


TO  A  MOUSE. 

ON  TURNING  HER  UP  IN  HER  NEST, 
WITH    THE  PLOUGH,    NOVEMBER- 

1785. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beas- 

tie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle ! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor,   earth-born  com- 
panion. 

An'  fellow-mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may 

thieve ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun 

live! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request: 

I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave. 

And  never  miss't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin! 
An'  naething,   now,   to  big  a  new 
ane, 

O'  foggage  green ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  an'  keen  I 


POKTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


279 


Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an' 

waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell. 
Till,  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stib- 

ble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 
Tow  thou's  turned  out,  for  a'   thy 
f  trouble. 

But  house  or  hald. 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An'  cranreuch  cauld ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane. 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  an' 
men. 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and 
pain, 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 
But,  Och !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear ! 

Burns. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN^  DAISY. 

ON  TURNING  ONE   DOWN  WITH   THE 
PLOUGH,  IN  APRIL,  1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  boiinie  gem. 

Alas !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet! 
Wi'  spreckled  breast. 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to 
greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth ; 


Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce    reared    above-   the    parent- 
earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens 

yield 
High    sheltering    woods    and    wa's 

maun  shield ; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O'  clod,  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawy  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed. 
And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 
Low  in  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 
On     life's     rough     ocean    luckless 

starred ! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till   billows    rage,  and   gales  blow 
hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has 

striven. 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink. 
Till,   wrenched    of    every  stay   but 
Heaven, 

He,  ruined,  sink ! 

Even  thou  who  moum'st  the  daisy's 

fate. 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date ; 
Stern    Ruin's    ploughshare    drives, 
elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's 
weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom ! 
Burns. 


280 


PARNASSUS. 


SANTA  FILOMENA. 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 

Our  liearts,  in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 
And  lifts  us  unawares 
Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  and  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs. 
And  by  their  overflow 
Kaise  us  from  what  is  low. 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp. 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain. 

In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain. 
The  cheerless  corridors, 
The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo !  in  that  house  of  misery 
A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass   through    the    glimmering 
gloom. 

And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkened  walls. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened,  and  then  closed  suddenly. 
The  vision  came  and  went. 
The  light  shone,  and  was  spent. 

OnEngland's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song. 
That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 
From  portals  of  the  past. 

The  lady  with  a  lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A  noble  type  of  good 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear,  — 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomena  bore. 

Longfellow. 


THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF 
AGASSIZ. 

MAY   28,   1857. 

It  was  fifty  years  ago, 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 

A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee. 
Saying,  "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 

"Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 
"  Into  regions  yet  untrod. 

And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away, 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long. 
Or  his  heart  began  to  fail. 

She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful 
song, 
Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child. 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 
Though  at  times    his    heart    beats 
wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Yaud ; 

Though    at  times  he  hears  in  his 
dreams 

The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old. 
And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 

From  glaciers  clear  and  cold ; 

And    the    mother   at    home    savs, 
"Hark! 
For  his  voice  I  Hsten  and  yearn : 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark. 
And  my  boy  does  not  return !" 

Longfellow. 


THE  WANTS  OF  MAN. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
'Tis  not  with  me  exactly  so; 
But  'tis  so  in  the  song. 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


281 


My  wants  are  many,  and,  if  told. 
Would  muster  many  a  scoie ; 
And  were  each  wish  a  mint  of  gold, 
I  still  should  long  for  more. 

Wliat  first  I  want  is  daily  bread  — 

And  canvas-backs  — and  wine  — 

And  all  the  realms  of  nature  spread 

Before  me,  when  I  dine. 

Four  courses  scarcely  can  provide 

My  appetite  to  quell; 

With  four  choice  cooks  from  France 

beside 
To  dress  my  dinner  well. 

What  next  I  want  at  princely  cost, 

Is  elegant  attire : 

Black  sable  furs  for  winter's  frost, 

And  silks  for  summer's  fire. 

And  Cashmere  shawls,  and  Brussels 

lace 
My  bosom's  front  to  deck,  — 
And  diamond  rings  my  hands  to  grace, 
And  rubies  for  my  neck. 

I  want  (who  does  net  want)  a  wife  — 

Affectionate  and  fair ; 

To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life, 

And  all  its  joys  to  share. 

Of  temper  sweet,  of  yielding  will, 

Of  firm  yet  placid  mind,  — 

With  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still 

With  sentiment  refined. 

And  as  Time's  car  incessant  runs, 
And  fortune  fills  my  store, 
I  want  of  daughters  and  of  sons 
From  eight  to  half  a  score. 
I  want  (alas !  can  mortal  dare 
Such  bliss  on  earth  to  crave?) 
That  all  the  girls  be  chaste  and  fair. 
The  boys  all  wise  and  brave. 

I  want  a  warm  and  faithful  friend, 

To  cheer  the  adverse  hour ; 

Who  ne'er  to  flattery  will  descend, 

Nor  bend  the  knee  to  power,  — 

A  friend  to  chide  me  when  I'm  wrong. 

My  inmost  soul  to  see; 

And  that  my  friendship  prove    as 

strong 
For  him  as  his  for  me. 

I  want  the  seals  of  power  and  place. 

The  ensigns  of  command ; 

Charged  by  the  People's  unbought 

grace 
To  rule  my  native  land. 


Nor  crown  nor  sceptre  would  I  ask, 
But  from  my  country's  will. 
By  day,  by  night,  to  ply  the  task 
Her  cup  of  bliss  to  fill. 

I  want  the  voice  of  honest  praise 

To  follow  me  behind. 

And  to  be  thought  in  future  days 

The  friend  of  human  kind, 

That  after  ages,  as  they  rise, 

Exulting  may  proclaim 

In  choral  union  to  the  skies 

Their  blessings  on  my  name. 

These  are  the  wants  of  mortal  man, 

I  cannot  want  them  long ; 

For  life  itself  is  but  a  span, 

And  earthly  bliss  —  a  song. 

My  last  great  want,  absorbing  all  — 

Is,  when  beneath  the  sod. 

And  summoned  to  my  final  call, 

The  "mercy  of  my  God." 

John  Quincy  Adams. 
Washington,  Aug.  31, 1841. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S 
ALBUM  BELOW  THE  AUTO- 
GRAPH OF  JOHN  ADAMS. 

Dear  lady,  I  a  little  fear 
'Tis  dangerous  to  be  writing  here. 
His  hand  who  bade  our  eagle  fly. 
Trust  his  young  wings,  and  mount 

the  sky,  — 
Who  bade  across  the  Atlantic  tide 
New   thunders    sweep,   new  navies 

ride. 
Has  traced   in    lines    of    trembling 

age 
His  autograph  upon  this  page. 
Higher  than  that  eagle  soars. 
Wider  than  that  thunder  roars, 
His  fame  shall  through  the  world  be 

sounding, 
And  o'er  the  waves  of  time  be  bound- 
ing. 
Though  thousands  as  obscure  as  I, 
Cling  to  his  skirts,  he  still  will  fly 
And  leap  to  immortality. 
If  by  his  name  I  write  my  own, 
He'll  take  me  where  I  am  not  known. 
The  cold  salute  will  meet  my  ear, 
"  Pray,  stranger,  how  did  you  come 
here?" 

Daniel  Webster. 


282 


PARNASSUS. 


TO  GEORGE  PEABODY. 

Bankrupt  —  our     pockets    inside 
out! 
Empty    of    words    to    speak    his 
praises ! 
Worcester  and  Webster  up  the  spout ! 
Dead  broke  of  laudatory  phrases ! 
But  wliy  with  flowery  speeches  tease, 
With    vain    superlatives    distress 
him  ? 
Has    language    better    words    than 
these  ? 
The  friend  of  all  his  race,  God  bless 
him  ! 

A  simple  prayer  —  but  words  more 
sweet 
By  human  lips  were  never  uttered, 
Since  Adam  left  the  country  seat 
Where  angel  wings    around  him 
fluttered. 
The   old  look  on  with  tear-dimmed 
eyes, 
The  children  cluster  to  caress  him, 
And  every  voice  unbidden  cries, 
The  friend  of  all  his  race,  God  bless 
him  ! 

O.  W.  Holmes. 

A  KING. 

A  KING  lived  long  ago, 

In  the  morning  of  the  world. 
When  Earth  was  nigher  Heaven 
than  now: 
And  the  King's  locks  curled 
Disparting  o'er  a  forehead  full 
As  the  milk-white  space  'twixt 
horn  and  horn 
Of  some  sacrificial  bull. 
Only  calm  as  a  babe  new-born : 
For  he  was  got  to  a   sleepy 

mood, 
So  safe  from  all  decrepitude, 
Age  with  its  bane  so  sure  gone  by, 
(The  gods  so  loved  him  while  he 

dreamed,) 
That,  having  lived  thus  long,  tliere 
seemed 
No  need  the  King  should  ever  die. 

Among  the  rocks  his  city  was ; 
Before  his  palace,  in  the  sun. 
He  sat  to  see  his  people  pass. 
And  judge  them  every  one 
From  its  threshold  of  smooth 
stone. 

Robert  Browning. 


THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    SEN- 
NACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the 

wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in 

purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was 

like  stars  on  the  sea, 
Wlien  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  oa 

deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when 
summer  is  green. 

That  host  with  tlieir  banners  at  sun- 
set were  seen : 

Like  the  leaves  of  tlie  forest  when 
autumn  hath  blown, 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  with- 
ered and  strewn. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his 

wing  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe 

as  he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed 

deadly  and  chill. 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved, 

and  forever  grew  still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nos- 
tril all  wide. 

But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the 
breath  of  his  pride ; 

And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay 
white  on  the  turf, 

And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock- 
beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and 
pale. 

With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the 
rust  on  his  mail ; 

And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the 
banners  alone. 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  un- 
blown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud 

in  their  wail. 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple 

of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentne,  un- 

smote  by  the  sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance 

of  the  Lord ! 

Byron. 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL. 
CLEOPATRA. 


The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnished 

throne, 
Burned  on  the  water :  the  poop  was 

beaten  gold, 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed, 

that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them : 

the  oars  were  silver ; 
Which  to  the  tune  of    flutes   kept 

stroke,  and  made 
The  water,  which  they  beat,  to  follow 

faster. 
As  amorous  of   their  strokes.     For 

her  own  person, 
It  beggared  all  description :  she  did 

lie 
In   her   pavilion,   (cloth-of-gold,  of 

tissue, ) 
O'er-picturing  that  Venus,  where  we 

see, 
The  fancy  out-work  nature :  on  each 

side  her, 
Stood  pretty  boys,  like  smiling  Cu- 
pids, 
With    diverse-colored  fans,    whose 

wind  did  seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which 

they  did  cool 
And  what  they  undid,  did. 
Her  gentlewomen,  like  the   Nerei- 
des, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i' 

the  eyes. 
And  made  their  bends  adomings :  at 

the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers ;  the  silken 

tackles 
Swell  with    the    touches    of    those 

flower-soft  hands. 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.     From 

the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the 

sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.    The  city 

cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her;  and  An- 
tony, 
Enthroned  in  the  market-place,  did 

sit  alone. 
Whistling  to  the  air;  which,  but  for 

vacancy, 
Had    gone    to    gaze    on    Cleopatra 

too, 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Shakspeabe. 


-  PICTURES.  233 

THE  GLADIATOR. 


I  SEE  before  me  the  gladiator  lie : 
He    leans   upon  his    hand; — his 

manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers 

agony. 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  grad- 
ually low  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops, 

ebbing  slow 
From  the    red  gash,    fall   heavy, 

one  by  one. 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ; 

and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he 

is  gone. 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which 

hailed  the  wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not,  — 

his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was 

far  away ; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost, 

nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the 

Danube  lay. 
There  were  his  young  barbarians 

all  at  play. 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother,  — 

he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holi- 
day;— 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood ;  — 

Shall  he  expire. 
And  unavenged  ?  —  Arise !  ye  Goths, 

and  glut  your  ire ! 

Bykon. 


THE   PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

I  MADE  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all. 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape ; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  hence- 
forth be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me : 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more  upon  the  mountains  high. 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

I  saw  them  —  and  they  were  the  same ; 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in 
frame; 


284 


PARNASSUS. 


I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high,  —  their  wide  long  lake  be- 
low, 
And  the  blue  Khone  in  fullest  flow ; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er    channelled  rock    and    broken 

bush; 
I  saw  the  white-walled  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view ; 
A   small  green  isle,  it    seemed  no 

more. 
Scarce  broader   than   my  dungeon 

floor. 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze. 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing. 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers 

growing. 
Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle-wall. 
And  they  seemed  joyous  each  and 

all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast ; 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly,  — 
And  then  new  tears  came  in    my 

eye. 
And  I  felt  troubled, —  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain. 

Bybon. 


FROM  PARISINA. 

EXECUTION. 

The  convent-bells  are  ringing, 
But  mournfully  and  slow ; 

In  the  gray  square  turret  swinging, 
With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro. 
Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go ! 

Hark !  the  hymn  is  singing  — 
The  song  for  the  dead  below, 
Or  the  living,  who  shortly  shall  be 
so! 

For  a  departing  being's  soul 

The  death-hymn  peals,  and  the  hol- 
low bells  knoll : 

He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 

Kneeling  at  the  friar's  knee; 

Sad  to  hear,  —  and  piteous  to  see,  — 

Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground, 

With  the  block  before  and  the  guards 
around ;  — 


And  the  headsman  with  his  bare  arm 
ready. 

That  the  blow  may  be  both  swift  and 
steady, 

Feels  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true  — 

Since  he  set  its  edge  anew : 

While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  cir- 
cle gather. 

To  see  the  son  fall  by  the  doom  of 
the  father. 

It  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 
Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set, 
And  his  evening  beams  are  shed 
Full  on  Hugo's  fated  head. 
As,  his  last  confession  pouring, 
To  the  monk  his  doom  deploring. 
In  penitential  holiness, 
He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bless 
With  absolution  such  as  may 
Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away. 

He  died,  as  erring  man  should  die, 
Without  display,  without  parade ; 
Meekly  had  he  bowed  and  prayed. 
As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid, 
Nor  desperate  of  all  hope  on  high. 
Byeon. 


FROM  THE  SIEGE  OF  COR- 
INTH. 

The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the 

sun 
As  if  that  morn  were  a  jocund 

one. 
Lightly     and     brightly    breaks 

away 
The  morning  from  her  mantle 
^  gray, 
And  the    noon  will  look  on  a 

sultry  day. 
Hark  to  the    trump,    and    the 
drum, 
And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  bar- 
barous horn, 
And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit 

as  they're  borne, 
And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the 

multitude's  hum, 
And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  "  They 

come,  they  come ! " 
The  horse-tails  are  plucked  from  the 

ground,  and  the  sword 
From  its  sheath ;  and  they  form,  and 
but  wait  for  the  word. 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


285 


Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 
Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the 

van; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 
That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain, 
When  he  breaks  from  the  town ;  and 

none  escape. 
Aged  or  young,   in    the    Christian 

shape ; 
While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  fiery 

mass, 
Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which 

they  pass. 
The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort 

to  the  rein ; 
Curved   is  each  neck,   and  flowing 

each  mane ; 
White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ 

on  the  bit : 
The  spears  are  uplifted ;  the  matches 

are  lit ; 
The  cannon  are  pointed  and  ready  to 

roar, 
And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crum- 
bled before : 
Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar ; 
Alp  at  their  head ;  his  right  arm  is 

bare. 
So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar ; 
The  Khan  and  his  pachas  are  all  at 

their  post : 
The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of 

the  host. 
When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired, 

then  On ! 
Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one  — 
A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her 

halls, 
A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone 

on  her  walls. 
God  and  the  prophet  —  Alia  Hu! 
Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo ! 
"  There  the  breach  lies  for  passage, 

the  ladder  to  scale ; 
And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and 

how  should  ye  fail  ? 
He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross 

may  crave 
His  heart's  dearest  wish;  let  him 

ask  it,  and  have!" 
Thus  uttered  Coumourgi,  the  daunt- 
less vizier; 
The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre 

and  spear. 
And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands 

in  joyous  ire :  — 
Silence — hark  to  the  signal  —  fire ! 
Bybon. 


ENTRANCE  OF  BOLINGBROKE 
INTO  LONDON. 

Duchess.  —  My  lord,  you  told  me 
you  would  tell  the  rest, 

When  weeping  made  you  break  the 
story  oil. 

Of  our  two  cousins  coming  into  Lon- 
don. 
York.  — Where  did  I  leave? 
Buch.  —  At  that  sad  stop,  my  lord, 

Where    rude    misgoverned     hands, 
from  windows'  tops, 

Threw  dust  and  rubbish  on  King 
Richard's  head, 
York.  —  Then  as  I  said,  the  duke, 
great  Bolingbroke,  — 

Mounted  upon  a  hot  and  fiery  steed. 

Which  his  aspiring  rider  seemed  to 
know,  — 

With  slow  but  stately  pace,  kept  on 
his  course. 

While  all  tongues  cried,  "  God  save 
thee,  Bohngbroke!" 

You  would  have  thought  the  very 
windows  spake. 

So  many  greedy  looks  of  young  and 
old 

Through  casements  darted  their  de- 
siring eyes 

Upon  his  visage,   and  that  all  the 
walls. 

With  painted  imagery,  had  said  at 
once,  — 

"  Jesu  presei-ve  thee!  welcome,  Bo- 
lingbroke!" 

Whilst  he,  from  one  side  to  the  other 
turning. 

Bareheaded,  lower  than  his  proud 
steed's  neck, 

Bespake  them  thus,  —  "I  thank  you, 
countrymen:" 

And  thus  still  doing,  thus  he  passed 
along. 
Duch.  — Alas,  poor  Richard,  where 

rides  he  the  while  ? 
York.  —  As  in  a  theatre,  the  eyes 
of  men. 

After  a  well-graced  actor  leaves  the 
stage, 

Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next, 

Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious : 

Even  so,  or  with  much  more  con- 
tempt, men's  eyes 

Did  scowl  on  Richard ;  no  man  cried, 
God  save  him ! 

No  joyful  tongue  gave  him  his  wel- 
come home : 


286 


PARNASSUS. 


But  dust  was  thrown  upon  his  sa- 
cred head, 

Which  with  such  gentle  sorrow  he 
shook  off,  — 

His  face  still  combating  with  tears 
and  smiles. 

The  badges  of    his  grief    and    pa- 
tience, — 

That,  had  not  God,  for  some  strong 
purpose,  steeled 

The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  per- 
force have  melted, 

And  barbarism   itself   have    pitied 
him. 
Shakspeare  :  King  Richard  11. 


THE  CALIPH'S  ENCAMPMENT. 

Whose  are  the    gilded   tents    that 

crowd  the  way. 
Where  all  was  waste  and  silent  yes- 
terday ? 
This  City  of  War,  which,  in  a  few 

short  hours. 
Hath  sprung    up   here,    as    if   the 

magic  powers 
Of  Him  who,  in  the  twinkling  of  a 

star. 
Built  the  high-pillared  walls  of  Ohil- 

minar. 
Had  conjured  up,  far  as  the  eye  can 

see. 
This  world  of  tents,  and  domes,  and 

sun-bright  armory :  — 
Princely  pavilions,  screened  by  many 

a  fold 
Of  crimson  cloth,  and  topped  with 

balls  of  gold:  — 
Steeds,  with  their  housings  of  rich 

silver  spun. 
Their  chains  and  poitrels  glittering 

in  the  sun ; 
And  camels,  tufted  o'er  with  Te- 

men's  shells 
Shaking  in  every  breeze  their  light- 
toned  bells ! 

MOOBE. 


FOP. 

Hotspur.  —  My  liege,  I  did  deny  no 
prisoners. 

But  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was 
done. 

When  I  was  dry  with  rage,  and  ex- 
treme toil, 


Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon 

my  sword. 
Came    there    a    certain   lord,   neat, 

trimly  dressed, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom ;  and  his  chin, 

new  reaped, 
Showed  like  a  stubble-land  at  har- 
vest-home ; 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner ; 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb 

he  held 
A    pouncet-box,    which    ever    and 

anon 
He  gave  his  nose,  and  took't  away 

again ;  — 
Who  therewith  angry,  when  it  next 

came  there. 
Took  it    in    snuff:  —  and    still    he 

smiled  and  talked ; 
And,  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies 

by, 
He  called  them  untaught  knaves, 

unmannerly, 
To  bring   a   slovenly   unhandsome 

corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 
With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 
He  questioned  me;  among  the  rest 

demanded 
My  prisoners,  in  your  majesty's  be- 
half. 
I  then,  all  smarting,  with  my  wounds 

being  cold. 
To  be  so  pestered  with  a  popinjay, 
Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 
Answered  neglectingly,  I  know  not 

what; 
He  should,  or  he  should  not; — for 

he  made  me  mad 
To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell 

so  sweet, 
And  talk  so  like  a  waiting-gentle- 
woman. 
Of  guns,   and  drums,  and  wounds, 

(God  save  the  mark!) 
And   telling   me,    the    sovereign' st 

thing  on  earth 
Was  parmaceti,  for  an  inward  bruise ; 
And  that  it  was  great  pity,   so  it 

was. 
That  villanous  saltpetre  should  be 

digged 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless 

earth. 
Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had 

destroyed 
So  cowardly ;  and  but  for  these  vile 

guns, 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


287 


He  would  himself  have  been  a  sol- 
dier. 

This  bald  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my 
lord, 

I  answered  indirectly,  as  I  said ; 

And  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  re- 
port 

Come  current  for  an  accusation, 

Betwixt    my  love   and    your   high 
majesty. 

Shakspeabe. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  AN- 
CHOR. 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor 
forged, — 'tis  at  a  white-heat 
now: 

The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  de- 
creased, though  on  the  forge's 
brow 

The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play 
through  the  sable  mound, 

And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the 
grim  smiths  ranking  round, 

All  clad  in  leather  panoply,  their 
broad  hands  only  bare,  — 

Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here, 
some  work  the  windlass  there. 

The     windlass    strains    the    tackle 

chains,     the     black     mound 

heaves  below, 
And  red  and  deep  a  hundred  veins 

burst  out  at  every  throe : 
It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright,  — 

O  Vulcan,  wliat  a  glow ! 

'Tis    blinding    white,    'tis    blasting 

bright,  —  the  high  sun  shines 

not  so ! 
The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth, 

such  a  fiery  fearful  show ; 
The  roof-ribs  swarth,   the  candent 

hearth,  the  ruddy  lurid  row 
Of    smiths  that    stand,    an    ardent 

band,  like  men  before  the  foe. 
As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of 

flame,    the    sailing   monster, 

slow 
Sinks  on  the  anvil;  —  all  about  the 

faces  fiery  grow. 
"  Hurrah ! "  they  shout,  "  leap  out  — 

leap  out;"    bang,  bang,  the 

sledges  go ; 
Hurrah!    the  jetted  lightnings  are 

hissing  high  and  low ;  — 


A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at 

every  squashing  blow. 
The    leathern    mail    rebounds    the 

hail,  the  rattling  cinders  strew 
The  ground  around ;  at  every  bound 

the  sweltering  fountains  flow, 
And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking 

crowd  at  every    stroke    pant 

"Ho!" 

Leap  out,   leap   out,    my   masters-, 

leap  out,  and  lay  on  load ! 
Let's    forge    a    goodly  anchor;  —  a 

bower  thick  and  broad ; 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on 

every  blow,  I  bode, 
And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding,  all 

in  a  perilous  road,  — 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee,  — 

the  roll  of  ocean  poured 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea; 

the  mainmast  by  the  board ; 
The    bulwarks    down,    the   rudder 

gone,  the  boats  stove  at  the 

chains ! 
But  courage  still,  brave  mariners  I 

the  bower  yet  remains. 
And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns, 

save  when  ye  pitch  sky  high ; 
Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he 

said,     ' '  Fear    nothing  —  here 

am  L" 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let 
foot  and  hand  keep  time : 

Tour  blows  make  music  sweeter  far 
than  any  steeple's  chime. 

But  while  you  sling  your  sledges, 
sing,  —  and  let  the  burthen  be. 

The  anchor  is  the  anvil  king,  and 
royal  craftsmen  we ! 

Strike  in,  strike  in  —  the  sparks  be- 
gin to  dull  their  rustling  red; 

Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din, 
our  work  will  soon  be  sped. 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his 
bed  of  fiery  rich  array. 

For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows, 
or  an  oozy  couch  of  clay ; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the 
lay  of  merry  craftsmen  here, 

For  the  yeo-heave-o',  and  the  heave- 
away,  and  the  sighing  sea- 
man's cheer; 

When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go 
—  far,  far  from  love  and  home ; 

And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row, 
wail  o'er  the  ocean  foam. 


288 


PARNASSUS. 


In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  dark- 
ens down  at  last ; 

A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as 
e'er  from  cat  was  cast. 

O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if 
thou  hadst  life  like  me, 

What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  re- 
ward beneath  the  deep  green 
sea! 

O  deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then 
behold  such  sights  as  thou  ? 

The  hoary  monster's  palaces !  me- 
tliinks  what  joy  'twere  now 

To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid 
the  assembly  of  the  whales, 

And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me 
boil  beneath  their  scourging 
tails ! 

Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight 
the  fierce  sea-unicorn, 

Ajid  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing 
back,  for  all  his  ivory  horn ; 

To  leave  the  subtile  sworder-fish  of 
bony  blade  forlorn ; 

And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark 
to  laugh  his  jaws  to  scorn ; 

To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's 
back,  where  'mid  Norwegian 
isles 

He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sud- 
den shallowed  miles ; 

Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  vol- 
cano, off  he  rolls ; 

Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the 
far  astonished  shoals 

Of  his  back-browsing  ocean-calves; 
or,  haply  in  a  cove. 

Shell-strewn,  and  consecrate  of  old 
to  some  Undind's  love, 

To  find  the  long-haired  maidens ;  or, 
hard  by  icy  lands. 

To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon 
cerulean  sands. 

O  broad-armed  fisher  of  the  deep, 
whose  sports  can  equal 
thine  ? 

The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand 
tons,  that  tugs  thy  cable 
line; 

And  night  by  night,  'tis  thy  delight, 
thy  glory  day  by  day. 

Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white, 
the  giant  game  to  play,  — 

Butshamer  of  our  little  sports!  for- 
give the  name  I  gave,  — 

A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy,  —  thine 
office  is  to  save. 


O  lodger  in    the    sea-king's    halls! 

couldst  thou  but  understand 
Wliose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy 

side,  —  or  who  that  dripping 

band, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave, 

that  round  about  thee  bend, 
With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream, 

blessing  their  ancient  friend ;  — 
O,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes 

glide  with  larger  steps  round 

thee. 
Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with 

pride, — thou'dst   leap  within 

the  sea ! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who 

left  the  pleasant  strand 
To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the 

love  of  father-land,  — 
Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age 

and  grassy  churchyard  grave 
So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the 

tossing  wave ! 
O,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all 

I  have  fondly  sung. 
Honor  him  for  their  memory  whose 

bones  he  goes  among ! 

Samuel  Ferguson. 


THE  ICE  PALACE. 

Less  worthy  of   applause,  though 

more  admired. 
Because  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man. 
Imperial    mistress  of    the    fur-clad 

Buss, 
Thy  most  magnificent  and  mighty 

freak, 
The  wonder  of  the  North.    No  forest 

fell 
When  thou  wouldst  build ;  no  quarry 

sent  its  stores 
To  enrich  thy  walls ;  but  thou  didst 

hew  the  floods. 
And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy 

wave. 
Silently  as  a  dream  the  fabric  rose ; 
No  sound  of  hammer  or  of  saw  was 

there : 
Ice  upon  ice,  the  well-adjusted  parts 
Were  soon  conjoined,  nor  other  cem- 
ent asked 
Than    water    interfused     to     make 

them  one. 
Lamps  gracefully  disposed,  and  of  all 

hues. 


PORTRAITS.  —  PERSONAL.  —  PICTURES. 


289 


Illumined  every  side :  a  watery  light 
Gleamed  through  the    clear  trans- 
parency, that  seemed 
Another  moon  new  risen,  or  meteor 

fallen 
From  Heaven  to  Earth,  of  lambent 

flame  serene. 
So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy :  though 

smooth 
And  slippery  the  materials,  yet  frost- 
bound 
Firm  as  a  rock.     Nor  wanted  aught 

within. 
That  royal  residence  might  well  befit, 
For  grandeur  or  for  use.     Long  wavy 

wreaths 
Of  flowers,  that  feared  no  enemy  but 

warmth. 
Blushed    on    the    panels.       Mirror 

needed  none 
Where  all  was  vitreous ;  but  in  order 

due 
Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat, 
(What  seemed  at  least  commodious 

seat, )  were  there ; 
Sofa    and     couch     and    high-built 

throne  august. 
The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all, 
And    all  was    moist  to    the   warm 

touch ;  a  scene 
Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a  stream, 
And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream  again. 

COWPER. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Our   bugles    sang    truce;    for   the 
night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars   set  their 
watch  in  the  sky ; 
And  thousands  had    sunk  on    the 
ground  overpowered, 
The    weary    to     sleep,     and    the 
wounded  to  die. 

When    reposing  that  night  on  my 
pallet  of  straw. 
By  the    wolf-scaring    fagot    that 
guarded  the  slain, 
At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet 
vision  I  saw, 
And    thrice    ere    the    morning    I 
dreamt  it  again. 

Meth ought    from    the    battle-field's 
dreadful  array 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  deso- 
late track : 

19 


'Twas  autumn;  and  sunshine  arose 
on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that 
welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed 
so  oft 
In    life's    morning  march,   when 
my  bosom  was  young  : 
I    heard    my    own    mountain-goats 
bleating  aloft. 
And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that 
the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and 
fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping 
friends  never  to  part : 
My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand 
times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her 
fulness  of  heart. 

"  Stay,  stay  with  us  —  rest,  thou  art 
weary  and  worn: " 
And    fain  was    their  war-broken 
soldier  to  stay ; 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawn- 
ing of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear 
melted  away. 

Campbell. 


THE  PALM  AND  THE  PXlSrE. 

Beneath  an  Indian  palm  a  girl 
Of  other  blood  reposes ; 
Her  cheek  is  clear  and  pale  as  pearl, 
Amid  that  wild  of  roses. 

Beside  a  northern  pine  a  boy 
Is  leaning  fancy-bound. 
Nor  listens  where  with  noisy  joy 
Awaits  the  impatient  hound. 

Cool   grows  the   sick  and  feverish 

calm,  — 
Relaxed  the  frosty  twine,  — 
The  pine-tree  dreameth  of  the  palm, 
The  palm-tree  of  the  pine. 

As  soon  shall  nature  interlace 
Those  dimly  visioned  boughs, 
As  these  young  lovers  face  to  face 
Renew  their  early  vows ! 

MiLNES. 


290 


PARNASSUS. 


BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

"  And  he  b.uried  him  in  a  valley  in  the 
land  of  Moab,  over  against  Beth-peor;  but 
no  man  knoweth  of  his  sepulchre  unto  this 
day."  —  Deut.  xxxiv.  6. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 

In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave ; 

But  no  man  built  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er; 

For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the 

sod, 
And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 
That  ever  passed  on  earth ; 
Yet  no  man  heard  the  trampling. 
Or  saw  the  train  go  forth: 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 
Comes  when  the  night  is  done. 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's 

cheek 
Grows  into  the  great  sun ; 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 
Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves. 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Unfold  their  thousand  leaves : 
So  without  sound  of  music 
Or  voice  of  them  that  wept. 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain's 

crown 
The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 

On  gray  Beth-peor' s  height 

Out  of  his  rocky  eyry 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight; 

Perchance  the  lion  stalking 

Still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot ; 

For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and 

heard 
That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But,  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  of  the  war. 

With    arms    reversed    and   muffled 

drums, 
Follow  the  funeral  car : 
They  show  the  banners  taken ; 
They  tell  his  battles  won. 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless 

steed, 
While  peals  the  minute-gun. 


Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 

And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place. 

With  costly  marbles  drest, 

In  the  great  minster  transept 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall. 

And  the  sweet  choir  sings,  and  the 

organ  rings 
Along  the  emblazoned  hall. 

This  was  the  bravest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword ; 

This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word ; 

And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden  pen. 

On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so 

sage 
As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor? 

The  hillside  for  his  pall ! 

To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall ! 

And  the  dark  rock  pines  like  tossing 

plumes 
Over  his  bier  to  wave. 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely 

land, 
To  lay  him  in  his  grave  I  — 

In  that  deep  grave  without  a  name, 

Whence  his  uncoffiued  clay 

Shall    break    again,  —  O    wondrous 

thought ! 
Before  the  judgment-day, 
And    stand,    with     glory    wrapped 

around. 
On  the  hills  he  never  trod, 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our 

life 
With  the  incarnate  Son  of  God. 

Oh  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land  I 

Oh  dark  Beth-peor' s  hill! 

Speak   to  these    curious   hearts  of 

ours. 
And  teach  them  to  be  still : 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace, 
Ways  that  we  cannot  tell, 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret 

sleep 
Of  him  he  loved  so  well. 

Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander. 


vn. 
NAKRATIYE   POEMS 

AND 

BALLADS. 


"Fragments  of  the  lofty  strain 
Float  down  the  tide  of  years, 
As  buoyant  on  the  stoi-my  main 
A  parted  wreck  appears."— Scott. 


I^AEEATIYE  POEMS  AJSTD   BALLADS. 


HOUSE  OF  BUSYRAI^. 

Kings,  queens,  lords,  ladies,  knights, 

and  damsels  great 
Were  heaped  together  with  the  vul- 
gar sort. 
And  mingled  with  the  rascal  rabble- 

ment 
Without  respect  of  person  or  of  port, 
To  show  Dan  Cupid's   power  and 

great  effort : 
And    round    about    a    border    was 

entrailed 
Of  broken  bows  and  arrows  shivered 

short. 
And  a    long  bloody  river  through 

them  rayled 
So  Uvely  and  so  like  that  living  scene 

it  failed. 

And  at  the  upper  end  of  that  fair 

room 
There  was  an  altar  built  of  precious 

stone 
Of  passing  value  and  of  great  renown. 
On  which  there  stood  an  image  all 

alone. 
Of  massy  gold,  which  with  his  own 

light  shone ; 
And  wings  it  had  with  sundry  colors 

dight,  — 
More  sundry  colors  than  the  proud 

pavone 
Bears  in  his    boasted   fan,   or  Iris 

bright 
When  her  discolored  bow  she  spreads 

through  heaven  bright. 

Blindfold  he  was ;  and  in  his  cruel  fist 
A  mortal   bow  of  arrows  keen  did 

hold. 
With  which  he  shot  at  random  when 

him  list; 
Some  headed   with  sad   lead,  some 

with  pure  gold ; 


(Ah!  man,  beware  how  thou  those 

darts  behold!) 
A  wounded  dragon  under  him  did  lie, 
Whose  hideous  tail  did  his  left  foot 

infold, 
And  with  a  shaft  was  shot  through 

either  eye 
That  no  man  forth  might  draw,  nor 

no  man  remedy. 

And  underneath  his  feet  was  written 

thus : 
"  Unto  the  Victor  of  the  gods  this  6e ; " 
And  all  the  people  in  that  ample 

house 
Did  to  that  image  bow  their  humble 

knee. 
And  oft  committed  foul  idolatry. 
That  wondrous  sight  fair  Britomart 

amazed, 
Nor  seeing  could  her  wonder  satisfy, 
But  evermore  and  more  upon  it  gazed 
The  while    the    passing  brightness 

her  frail  senses  dazed. 

Though  as  she  backward  cast  her 

busy  eye. 
To  search  each  secret  of  that  goodly 

stead, 
Over  the  door  thus  written  she  did 

spy, 

"  Be  bold:  "  she  oft  and  oft  it  over- 
read, 
Yet  could  not  find  what  sense  it 

figured ; 
But  whatso  were  therein,  or  writ,  or 

meant. 
She  was  thereby  no  whit  discouraged 
From  prosecuting  of  her  first  intent. 
But  forward  with  bold  steps   into 
the  next  room  went. 

Much  fairer  than  the  former  was 

that  room. 
And  richlier  by  many  parts  arrayed ; 
293 


294 


PARNASSUS. 


For  not  with  arras,*  made  in  painful 
loom, 

But  with  pure  gold,  it  all  was  over- 
laid, 

Wrought  with  wild  antics,  which 
their  follies  played 

In  the  rich  metal  as  they  living  were : 

A  thousand  monstrous  forms  therein 
were  made. 

Such  as  false  Love  doth  oft  upon 
him  wear; 

For  love  in  thousand  monstrous 
forms  doth  oft  appear. 

And  all  about  the  glistering  walls 

were  hung 
With  warUke  spoils  and"  with  victo- 

torious  prayes 
Of  mighty  conquerors  and  captains 

strong, 
Wliich  were  whilom  captived  in  their 

days 
To  cruel  love,   and  wrought    their 

own  decays. 
Their  swords  and  spears  were  broke, 

and  hauberks  rent, 
And  their  proud  garlands  of  trium- 
phant bays 
Trodden  to  dust  with  fury  insolent. 
To    show  the  victor's    might    and 

merciless  intent. 

The  warlike  maid,  beholding  earnest- 
ly 
The  goodly  ordinance  of  this  rich 

place. 
Did  greatly  wonder,  nor  did  satisfy 
Her  greedy  eyes  by  gazing  a  long 

space. 
But   more    she    marvelled  that  no 

footing's  trace 
Nor  wight  appeared,  but  wasteful 

emptiness 
And  solemn  silence   over  all   that 

space : 
Strange  thing  it  seemed  that  none 

was  to  possess 
So  rich  purveyance,  nor  them  keep 

with  carefulness. 

And  as  she  looked  about,  she  did 
behold 

How  over  that  same  door  was  like- 
wise writ, 

"Be  bold,  be  bold,^^  and  everywhere, 
''Heboid;'' 

That  much  she  mused,  yet  could 
not  construe  it 


By  any  riddling  skill,  nor  common 

wit. 
At  last  she  spied    at    that   room's 

upper  end 
Another  iron  door,   on  which  was 

writ, 
"  JBe  not  too  bold;''  whereto  though 

she  did  bend 
Her  earnest  mind,  yet  wist  not  what 

it  might  intend. 

Spenser. 


THE  GATE  OF  CAMELOT. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on 
the  plain 

That  broadened  toward  the  base  of 
Camelot, 

Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty 
morn 

Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  Royal 
mount, 

That  rose  between  the  forest  and 
the  field. 

At  times  the  summit  of  the  high 
city  flashed ; 

At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half- 
way down 

Pricked  through  the  mist:  at  times 
the  great  gate  shone 

Only,  that  opened  on  the  field  below: 

Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  dis- 
appeared. 

Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth 

were  amazed. 
One  crying,  "Let  us  go  no  further, 

lord. 
Here  is  a  city  of  Enchanters,  built 
By  fairy  Kings."   The  second  echoed 

him, 
"  Lord,  we  have  heard  from  our  wise 

men  at  home 
To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not 

the  King, 
But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairyland, 
Who  drave  tlie  heathen  hence  by 

sorcery 
And  Merlin's  glamour."     Then  the 

first  again, 
"Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  any- 
where, 
But  all  a  vision." 

Gareth  answered  them 
With    laughter,    swearing    he    had 
glamour  enow 


NAERATIYE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


295 


In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom, 

youth  and  hopes. 
To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian 

sea; 
So  pushed  them  all  unwilling  toward 

the  gate. 
And  there  was  no  gate  like  it  under 

heaven. 
For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which 

was  lined 
And  rippled    like*  an  ever-fleeting 

wave, 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood :  all  her 

dress 
Wept  from  her  sides  as  water  flow- 
ing away ; 
But  like  the  cross   her  great    and 

goodly  arms 
Stretched  under  all  the  cornice,  and 

upheld : 
And  drops  of  water  fell  from  either 

hand ; 
And  down  from  one  a  sword  was 

hung,  from  one 
A    censer,   either  worn  with  wind 

and  storm; 
And  o'er  her  breast  floated  the  sacred 

fish; 
And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her  and 

right. 
Were  Arthur's  wars  in  weird  devices 

done. 
New  things  and  old  co-twisted,  as  if 

Time 
Were  nothing,  so  inveterately,  that 

men 
Were  giddy  gazing  there ;  and  over 

all 
High  on  the  top  were  those  three 

Queens,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at 

his  need. 

Then  those  with  Gareth  for  so  long 

a  space 
Stared  at  the  figures,  that  at  last  it 

seemed 
The  dragoii-boughts  and  elvish  em- 

blemings 
Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine  and 

curl :  they  called 
To  Gareth,  "Lord,  the  gateway  is 

alive.'* 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixt 
his  eyes 
So    long,   that    even    to    him   they 
seemed  to  move. 


Out  of  the  city  a  blast  of  music  pealed. 

Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three, 
to  whom 

From  out  thereunder  came  an  an- 
cient man, 

Long-bearded,  saying,  "Who  be  ye, 
my  sons?" 

Then  Gareth,  "We  be  tillers  of 

the  soil, 
Who  leaving  share  in  furrow,  come 

to  see 
The  glories  of  our  King :  but  these, 

my  men 
(Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the 

mist), 
Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,  or 

come 
From  fairyland;  and  whether  this 

be  built 
By  magic,  and  by  fairy  Kings  and 

Queens ; 
Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all, 
Or  all  a  vision :  and  this  music  now 
Hath  scared  them  both ;  but  tell  thou 

these  the  truth." 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer 

playing  on  him 
And  saying,  "  Son,  I  have  seen  the 

good  ship  sail 
Keel  upward  and  mast  downward  in 

the  heavens. 
And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air : 
And  here  is  truth ;  but  an  it  please 

thee  not, 
Take  thou  the  tmth  as  thou  hast 

told  it  me. 
For  truly,  as  thou  sayest,  a  Fairy 

King 
And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the 

city,  son; 
They  came  from  out  a  sacred  moun- 
tain-cleft 
Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp 

in  hand. 
And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their 

harps. 
And  as  thou  sayest  it  is  enchanted, 

son, 
For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems, 
Saving  the  King ;  though  some  there 

be  that  hold 
The  King  a  shadow,  and  the  city  real : 
Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for  so 

thou  pass 
Beneath    this    archway,   then    wilt 

thou  become 


296 


PARNASSUS. 


A  thrall  to  his  enchantments,  for 

the  King 
Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as  is  a 

shame 
A  man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet 

the  which 
No  man  can  keep ;  but,  so  thou  dread 

to  swear, 
Pass  not  beneath  this  gateway,  but 

abide 
Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field, 
For,  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the 

city  is  built 
To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all, 
And  therefore  built  forever." 

Gareth  spake 
Angered,    "  Old    Master,  reverence 

thine  own  beard 
That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth, 

and  seems 
Well-nigh  as  long  as  thou  art  statured 

tall! 
"Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that 

hath  been 
To  thee  fair-spoken?  " 

But  the  Seer  replied, 
"  Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of 

the  Bard»  ? 
'  Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  rela- 
tion, 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion'  ? 
I  mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest 

me. 
And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art 

not  who 
Thou  seemest,  but  I  know  thee  who 

thou  art. 
And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the 

King, 
Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of 

any  lie." 

Unmockingly  the  mocker  ending 
here 

Turned  to  the  right,  and  past  along 
the  plain; 

Whom  Gareth  looking  after,  said, 
"My  men. 

Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a  little 
ghost 

Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enter- 
prise. 

Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  not  she, 
nor  I : 

Well,  we  will  make  amends." 


With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake  and  laughed,  then  entered 

with  his  twain 
Camelot,  a  city  of  shadowy  palaces 
And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and  the 

work 
Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days 

in  stone; 
Wliich  Merlin's  hand,  the  Mage  at 

Arthur's  court, 
Knowing  all  arts,  had  touched,  and 

everywhere 
At    Arthur's    ordinance,    tipt  with 

lessening  peak 
And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire 

to  heaven. 
And  ever  and  anon  a  knight  would 

pass 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall :  his 

arms 
Clashed ;  and  the  sound  was  good  to 

Gareth' s  ear. 
And  out  of    bower  and    casement 

shyly  glanced 
Eyes    of   pure  women,    wholesome 

stars  of  love ; 
And  all    about  a  healthful    people 

stept 
As  in  the  presence  of    a  gracious 

king. 

*  Tennyson. 


THE  CROWNING  OF  ARTHUR. 

There  came  to  Cameliard, 
With  Gawin  and  young  Modred,  her 

two  sons. 
Lot's  wife,   the  Queen  of  Orkney, 

Bellicent; 
Whom  as  lie  could,  not  as  he  would, 

the  King 
Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat 

at  meat, 

"  A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on 
summer  seas. 

Ye  come  fi-om  Arthur's  court.  Vic- 
tor his  men 

Report  him !  Yea,  but  ye,  —  think 
ye  this  king,  — 

So  many  those  that  hate  him,  and 
so  strong. 

So  few  his  knights,  however  brave 
they  be,  — 

Hath  body  enow  to  hold  his  foemen 
down?" 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS, 
and  I  wi 


297 


•'  O  King,"  she  cried 
tell  thee :  few, 

Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind 
with  him ; 

For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage 
yells 

Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthur 
sat 

Crowned  on  the  dais,  and  his  war- 
riors cried, 

*  Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work 
thy  will 

Who  love  thee.'     Then  the  King  in 
low  deep  tones, 

And  simple  words  of  great  author- 
ity, 

Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his 
own  self. 

That  when  they  rose,  knighted  from 
kneeling,  some 

Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a 
ghost, 

Some  flushed,  and  others  dazed,  as 
one  who  wakes 

Half -blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  light. 


"But  when  he  spake  and  cheered 
his  Table  Round 

With  large,  divine  and  comfortable 
words 

Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee,  —  I 
beheld 

From  eye  to  eye  through  all  their 
Order  flash 

A  momentary  likeness  of  the  King : 

And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  through 
the  cross 

And  those  around  it  and  the  Cruci- 
fied, 

Down  from  the  casement  over  Ar- 
thur, smote 

Flame-color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three 
rays, 

One  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair 
queens, 

Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne, 
the  friends 

Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with 
bright 

Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at 
his  need. 


"  And  there  I  saw  mage  Merlin, 
whose  vast  wit 
And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the 
hands 


Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 
"And  near  him  stood  the  Lady 

of  the  Lake, 
Who  knows  a  subtler  magic  than 

his  own,  — 
Clothed    in  white    samite,   mystic, 

wonderful. 
She  gave  the  King  his  huge  cross- 

hilted  sword, 
Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out: 

a  mist 
Of    incense  curled  about  her,  and 

her  face 
Well-nigh  was  hidden  in  the  minster 

gloom; 
But    there  was    heard    among    the 

holy  hymns 
A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she 

dwells 
Down  in  a  deep,  calm,  whatsoever 

storms 
May  shake  the  world,  and  when  the 

surface  rolls. 
Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like 

our  Lord. 


"  There  likewise  I  beheld  Excali- 

bur 
Before  him  at  his  crowning  borne, 

the  sword 
That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 

lake. 
And  Arthur  rowed  across  and  took 

it,  —  rich 
With   jewels,    elfin    Urim,    on  the 

hilt. 
Bewildering    heart    and  eye,  —  the 

blade  so  bright 
That  men   are  blinded  by  it;  —  on 

one  side, 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all 

this  world, 
'  Take  me ; '  but  turn  the  blade  and 

ye  shall  see. 
And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak 

yourself, 
'  Cast    me    away ! '     And    sad    was 

Arthur's  face 
Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counselled 

him, 
*  Take  thou  and  strike !  the  time  to 

cast  away 
Is  yet  far-off.'    So  this  great  brand 

the  king 
Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foe- 
men  down." 

Tennyson. 


298 


PARNASSUS. 


ALFRED  THE  HARPER. 

Dark  fell  the  night,  the  watch  was 

set, 
The  host  was  idly  spread. 
The  Danes  around  their  watchfires 

met. 
Caroused,  and  fiercely  fed. 

The  chiefs  beneath  a  tent  of  leaves, 
And  Guthrum,  king  of  all. 
Devoured    the    flesh    of   England's 

beeves, 
And  laughed  at  England's  fall. 
Each  warrior  proud,  each    Danish 

earl, 
In  mail  and  wolf-skin  clad, 
Their  bracelets  white  with  plundered 

pearl. 
Their  eyes  with  triumph  mad. 

From  Humber-land  to  Severn-land, 

And  on  to  Tamar  stream. 

Where    Thames    makes    green    the 

towery  strand, 
Where  Med  way's  waters  gleam, — 
With  hands  of  steel  and  mouths  of 

flame 
They  raged  the  kingdom  through ; 
And    where   the    Norseman   sickle 

came, 
No  crop  but  hunger  grew. 

They  loaded  many  an  English  horse 

With  wealth  of  cities  fair; 

They  dragged  from  many  a  father's 

corse 
Tl)o  daughter  by  her  hair. 
And  English  slaves,  and  gems  and 

gold. 
Were  gathered  round  the  feast ; 
Till  midnight  in  their  woodland  hold. 
Oh  I  never  that  riot  ceased. 

In  stalked  a  warrior  tall  and  rude 

Before  the  strong  sea-kings ; 

*'Ye  Lords    and    Earls    of    Odin's 

brood, 
Without  a  harper  sings. 
He  seems  a  simple  man  and  poor, 
But  well  he  sounds  the  lay ; 
And  well,  ye  Norseman  chiefs,  be  sure, 
Will  ye  tlie  song  repay." 

In  trod  the  bard  with  keen  cold  look, 
And  glanced  along  the  board, 
That  with   the  shout  and  war-cry 
shook 


Of  many  a  Danish  lord. 
But  thirty  brows,  inflamed  and  stem. 
Soon  bent  on  him  their  gaze, 
While  calm  he  gazed,  as  if  to  learn 
Who  chief  deserved  his  praise. 

Loud  Guthrum  spake,  —  "Nay,  gaze 

not  thus, 
Thou  Harper  weak  and  poor ! 
By  Thor !  who  bandy  looks  with  us 
Must  worse  than  looks  endure. 
Sing  high  the  praise  of  Denmark's 

host, 
High  praise  each  dauntless  Earl ; 
The  brave  who  stun  this  English 

coast 
With  war's  unceasing  whirl." 

The  Harper  slowly  bent  his  head, 
And  touched  aloud  the  string ; 
Then  raised   his  face,    and    boldly 

said, 
"  Hear  thou  my  lay,  O  king! 
High  praise   from  every  mouth   of 

man 
To  all  who  boldly  strive. 
Who  fall  where  first  the  fight  began, 
And  ne'er  go  back  alive. 

"Fill  high  your  cups,  and  swell  the 

shout, 
At  famous  Regnar's  name! 
Who  sank  his  host  in  bloody  rout. 
When  he  to  Humber  came. 
His  men  were  chased,  his  sons  were 

slain. 
And  he  was  left  alone. 
They  bound  him  in  an  iron  chain 
Upon  a  dungeon  stone. 

"With  iron  links  they  bound  him 
fast; 

With  snakes  they  filled  the  hole. 

That  made  his  flesh  their  long  re- 
past. 

And  bit  into  his  soul. 

"  Great  chiefs,  why  sink  in  gloom 

your  eyes  ? 
Why  champ  your  teeth  in  pain  ? 
Still  lives  the  song  though  Regnar 

dies! 
Fill  high  your  cups  again. 
Ye    too,    perchance,    O    Norsemen 

lords ! 
Wlio  fought  and  swayed  so  long. 
Shall  soon  but  live  in  minstrel  words, 
And  owe  your  names  to  song. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


299 


"  This  land  has  graves  by  thousands 

more 
Than  that  where  Regnar  lies. 
When  conquests  fade,  and  rule  is  o'er, 
The  sod  must  close  your  eyes. 
How  soon,  who  knows  ?    Not  chief, 

nor  bard ; 
And  yet  to  me  'tis  given, 
To  see  your  foreheads  deeply  scarred, 
And  guess  the  doom  of  Heaven. 

"  I  may  not  read  or  when  or  how, 
But,  Earls  and  Kings,  be  sure 
I  see  a  blade  o'er  every  brow. 
Where  pride  now  sits  secure. 
Fill  high  the  cups,  raise  loud  the 

strain ! 
When  chief  and  monarch  fall, 
Their  names  in  song  shall  breathe 

again, 
And  thrill  the  feastful  hall." 

Grim  sat  the  chiefs;  one  heaved  a 

groan. 
And  one  grew  pale  with  dread, 
His  iron  mace  was  grasped  by  one, 
By  one  his  wine  was  shed. 
Aiid  Guthrum  cried,  "Nay,  bard, no 

more 
We  hear  thy  boding  lay ; 
Make  drunk  the  song  with  spoil  and 

gore ! 
Light  up  the  joyous  fray ! " 

"  Quick  throbs  my  brain,"  — so  burst 

the  song,  — 
"  To  hear  the  strife  once  more. 
The  mace,  the  axe,  they  rest  too  long ; 
Earth  cries.  My  thirst  is  sore. 
More  blithely  twang  the  strings  of 

bows 
Than  strings  of  harps  in  glee ; 
Red  wounds  are  lovelier  than  the  rose, 
Or  rosy  lips  to  me. 

"  Oh !  fairer  than  a  field  of  flowers, 
When  flowers  in  England  grew, 
Would  be  the    battle's    marshalled 

powers. 
The  plain  of  carnage  new. 
With  all  its  deaths  before  my  soul 
The  vision  rises  fair ; 
Raise  loud  the  song,  and  drain  the 

bowl ! 
I  would  that  I  were  there!" 

Loud  rang  the  harp,  the  minstrel's  eye 
Rolled  fiercely  round  the  throng ; 


It  seemed  two  crashing  hosts  were 

nigh, 
Whose  shock  aroused  the  song. 
A  golden  cup  King  Guthrum  gave 
To  him  who  strongly  played ; 
And  said,  "  I  won  it  from  the  slave 
Who  once  o'er  England  swayed." 

King   Guthrum  cried,  '"Twas   Al- 
fred's own ; 
Thy  song  befits  the  brave : 
The   King  who   cannot    guard    his 

throne 
Nor  wine  nor  song  shall  have." 
The  minstrel  took  the  goblet  bright, 
And  said,  "  I  drink  the  wine 
To  him  who  owns  by  justest  right 
The  cup  thou  bid'st  be  mine. 

"To  him,  your  Lord,  Oh  shout  ye 

all! 
His  meed  be  deathless  praise ! 
The  King  who  dares  not  nobly  fall, 
Dies  basely  all  his  days." 

"The  praise  thou  speakest,"  Guth- 
rum said, 

"  With  sweetness  fills  mine  ear; 

For  Alfred  swift  before  me  fled. 

And  left  me  monarch  here. 

The  royal  coward  never  dared 

Beneath  mine  eye  to  stand. 

Oh,  would  that  now  this  feast  he 
shared. 

And  saw  me  rule  his  land ! " 

Then  stern  the  minstrel  rose,  and 

spake. 
And  gazed  upon  the  King,  — 
"  Not  now  the  golden  cup  I  take. 
Nor  more  to  thee  I  sing. 
Another  day,  a  happier  hour, 
Shall  bring  me  here  again : 
The  cup  shall  stay  in  Guthrum' s 

power 
Till  I  demand  it  then." 

The  Harper   turned    and    left    the 

shed. 
Nor  bent  to  Guthrum' s  crown; 
And  one  who  marked  his  visage  said 
It  wore  a  ghastly  frown. 
The  Danes  ne'er  saw  that  Harper 

more. 
For  soon  as  morning  rose, 
Upon  their  camp  King  Alfred  bore. 
And  slew  ten  thousand  foes. 

John  Sterling 


800 


PAENASSUS. 


GARCI  PEREZ  DE  VARGAS. 

King  Ferdinand  alone  did  stand  one 

day  upon  the  hill, 
Surveying  all.  his  leaguer,  and  the 

ramparts  of  Seville ; 
The  sight  was  grand  when  Ferdinand 

by  proud  Seville  was  lying, 
O'er  tower  and  tree  far  off  to  see  the 

Christian  banners  flying. 

Down  chanced  the  king  his  eye  to 
fling,  where  far  the  camp  be- 
low 

Two  gentlemen  along  the  glen  were 
riding  soft  and  slow ; 
,  As  void  of  fear  each  cavalier  seemed 
to  be  riding  there, 

As  some  strong  hound  may  pace 
around  the  roebuck's  thicket 
lair. 

It  was  Don  Garci  Perez;  and  he 
would  breathe  the  air, 

And  he  had  ta'en  a  knight  with  him 
that  as  lief  had  been  else- 
where : 

For  soon  this  knight  to  Garci  said, 
"Ride,  ride,  or  we  are  lost! 

I  see  the  glance  of  helm  and  lance,  — 
it  is  the  Moorish  host ! " 

The  Lord  of   Vargas    turned   him 

round,  his  trusty  squire  was 

near; 
The  helmet  on  his  brow  he  bound, 

his  gauntlet  grasped  the  spear ; 
With  that  upon  his   saddle-tree  he 

planted  him  right  steady,  — 
"Now  come,"  quoth  he,  "whoe'er 

they  be,  I  trow  they'll  find  us 

ready." 

By  this  the  knight  that  rode  with 

him   had  turned  his    horse's 

head. 
And  up  the  glen  in  feai-ful  trim  unto 

the  camp  had  fled. 
"Ha!  gone?"  quoth   Garci  Perez: 

he  smiled,  and  said  no  more. 
But  slowly  on  with  his  esquire  rode 

as  he  rode  before. 

It  was  the  Count  Lorenzo,  just  then 

?.Miappened  so, 
He  took  his  stand  by  Ferdinand,  and 

with  him  gazed  below ; 


"  My  liege,"  quoth  he,  "  seven  Moors 

I  see  a-coming  from  the  wood, 
Now  bring  they  all  the  blows  they 

may.   I  trow  they'll    find  as 

good; 
For  it  is  Don  Garci  Perez, — if  his 

cognizance  they  know, 
I  guess  it  will  be  little  pain  to  give 

them  blow  for  blow." 

The  Moors  from  forth  the  greenwood 
came  riding  one  by  one, 

A  gallant  troop  with  armor  resplen- 
dent in  the  sun ; 

Full  haughty  was  their  bearing,  as 
o'er  the  sward  they  came; 

But  the  calm  Lord  of  Vargas,  his 
march  was  still  the  same. 

They  stood  drawn  up  in  order,  while 

past  them  all  rode  he ; 
But  when  upon  his  shield  they  saw 

the  sable  blazonry. 
And  the  wings  of  the  Black  Eagle, 

that  o'er  his  crest  were  spread, 
They  knew  Don  Garci   Perez,  and 

never  word  they  said. 

He  took  the  casque  from  off  his  brow, 
and  gave  it  to  the  squire ; 

"  My  friend,"  quoth  he,  "no  need  I 
see  why  I  my  brows  should 
tire." 

But  as  he  doffed  the  helmet  he  saw 
his  scarf  was  gone, 

"I've  dropped  it,  sure,"  quoth  Gar- 
ci, "when  I  put  my  helmet 
on." 

He  looked  around  and  saw  the  scarf, 

for  still  the  Moors  were  near. 
And  they  had  picked  it  from   the 

sward,  and  looped  it  on  a  spear. 
"These  Moors,"  quoth  Garci  Perez, 

"  uncourteous  Moors  they  be, — 
Now,   by  my   soul,   the   scarf  they 

stole,  yet  durst  not  question 


Now  reach  once  more  my  helmet." 

The  esquire  said  him  nay, 
"For  a  silken  string  why  should  ye 

fling      perchance     your     life 

away?" 
"  I  had   it  from  my  lady,"  quoth 

Garci,  "  long  ago. 
And  never  Moor  that  scarf,  be  sure, 

in  proud  Seville  shall  show." 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


301 


But  when  the  Moslem  saw  him,  they 
stood  in  firm  array : 

He  rode  among  their  armed  throng, 
he  rode  right  furiously ; 

"Stand,  stand,  ye  thieves  and  rob- 
bers, lay  down  my  lady's 
pledge!" 

He  cried ;  and  ever  as  he  cried  they 
felt  his  falchion's  edge. 

That  day  the  Lord  of  Vargas  came 

to  the  camp  alone ; 
The  scarf,  his  lady's  largess,  around 

his  breast  was  thrown ; 
Bare  was  his  head,  his  sword  was  red, 

and  from  his  pommel  strung 
Seven  turbans  green,  sore  hacked  I 

ween,  before  Don  Garci  hung. 

LoCKHABT :  Spanish  Ballads. 


BATTLE  OF  HARLAW. 

Now  hand  your  tongue,  baith  wife 
and  carle, 
And  listen  great  and  sma', 
And    I    will    sing    of     Glenallan's 
Earl 
That  fought  on  the  red  Harlaw. 

The  cronach's  cried  on  Bennachie, 
And  down  the  Don  and  a', 

And  hieland  and  lawland  may  mourn- 
fu'  be 
For  the  sair  field  of  Harlaw. 

They  saddled  a  hundred  milk-white 
steeds. 
They     hae     bridled    a    hundred 
black, 
With  a  chafron  of    steel    on  each 
horse's  head, 
And  a  good  knight  upon  his  back. 

They  hadna  ridden  a  mile,  a  mile, 

A  mile  but  barely  ten, 
Wlien  Donald  came  branking  down 
the  brae 

Wi'  twenty  thousand  men. 

Their    tartans    they    were    waving 
wide, 
Their     glaives      were      glancing 
clear, 
The    pibrochs    rung    frae    side    to 
side, 
Would  deafen  ye  to  hear. 


The    great    Earl    in     his    stirrups 
stood. 
That  Highland  host  to  see : 
"  Now  here  a  knight  that's  stout  and 
good 
May  prove  a  jeopardie : 

"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  squire 
so  gay. 

That  rides  beside  my  reyne,  — 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl  the  day, 

And  I  were  Roland  Cheyne  ? 

"  To  turn    the   rein  were  sin  and 
shame, 
To  fight  were  wondrous  peril,  — 
What   would    ye   do    now,  Roland 
Cheyne,  ' 

Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl  ?  " 

"Were    I    Glenallan's    Earl     this 
tide. 
And  ye  were  Roland  Cheyne, 
The  spur  should  be  in  my  horse's 
side. 
And  the  bridle  upon  his  mane. 

"If     they    hae     twenty    thousand 
blades, 
And  we  twice  ten  times  ten, 
Yet    they    hae    but     their    tartan 
plaids, 
And  we  are  mail-clad  men. 

"My  horse  shall  ride  through  ranks 
sae  rude. 
As  through  the  moorland  fern,  — 
Then  ne'er  let  the  gentle  Norman 

blude 
Grow  cauld  for  Highland  kerne." 

Scott. 


ZINMONT  WILLIE. 

Oh,  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  fause 
Sakelde  ? 
Oh,  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  keen 
Lord  Scroope  ? 
How  they  hae  ta'en  bauld  Kinmont 
Willie, 
On  Haribee  to  hang  him  up  ? 

Had  Willie  had  but  twenty  men, 
But  twenty  men  as  stout  as  he, 

Fause  Sakelde  had  never  the  Kin- 
mont ta'en, 
Wi'  eightscore  in  his  companie. 


302 


PAKNASSUS. 


They  band  his  legs  beneath  the  steed, 
They  tied  his  hands  behind  his 
back; 
They  guarded  him,  fivesome  on  each 
side. 
And  tliey  brought  him  ower  the 
Liddel-raclc. 

Tliey  led  him  through  the  Liddel- 
rack, 
And    also    through    the    Carlisle 
sands ; 
They  brought  him  to  Carlisle  castell, 
To  be  at  my  Lord  Scroope's  com- 
mands. 

"  My  hands  are  tied,  but  my  tongue 
is  free. 
And  whae    will    dare    this    deed 
avow? 
Or  answer  by  the  Border  law  ? 
Or    answer    to    the    bauld    Buc- 
cleuch?" 

"Now  baud  thy  tongue,  thou  rank 
reiver ! 
There's  never  a  Scot  shall  set  thee 
free: 
Before  ye  cross  my  castle  yate, 
I  trow  ye  shall  take  farewell  o'  me." 

"Fearna  ye  that,  my  lord,"  quoth 
Willie. 
"  By  the  faith  o'  my  body.  Lord 
Scroope,"  he  said, 
"  I  never  yet  lodged  in  a  hostelrie. 
But  I  paid  my  lawing  before  I 
gaed."  — 

Now  word    is   gane   to  the    bauld 
Keeper, 
In  Branksome  Ha',  wher  that  he 
lay. 
That  Lord  Scroope  has    ta'en  the 
Kinmont  Willie, 
Between  the  hours  of  night  and  day. 

He  has  ta'en  the  table  wi'  his  hand. 
He  garr'd  the  red  wine  spring  on 
hie,  — 
"Now  Christ's  curse  on  my  head," 
he  said, 
"  But  avenged  of  Lord  Scroope, 
I'll  be ! 

**  O  is  my  basnet  a  widow's  curch? 
Or  my  lance  a  wand  of  the  willow- 
tree? 


Or  my  arm  a  ladye's  lilye  hand, 
That  an  English  lord  sets  light  by 
me! 

"  And  have  they  ta'en  him,  Kinmont 

Willie, 

Against  the  truce  of  Border  tide  ? 

And  forgotten  that  the  bauld  Buc- 

cleuch 

Is  keeper  here  on  the  Scottish  side  ? 

"And  have   they  e'en    ta'en   him, 
Kinmont  Willie, 
Withouten  either  dread  or  fear? 
And  forgotten  that  the  bauld  Buc- 
cleuch 
Can  back   a   steed,    or    shake    a 
spear  ? 

"  O  were    there  war   between    the 
lands, 
As  well  I  wot  that  there  is  none, 
I  would  slight  Carlisle  castell  high, 
Though  it  were  builded  of  marble 
stone. 

*'  I  would  set  that  castell  in  a  low,* 
And     sloken     it     with     English 
blood ! 
There's  never  a  man  in    Cumber- 
land, 
Should  ken  where  Carlisle  castell 
stood. 

"But  since  nae  war's  between  the 
lands, 
And    there   is    peace,   and  peace 
should  be ; 
I'll  neither  harm    English    lad    or 
lass, 
And  yet  the  Kinmont  freed  shall 
be!" 

He  has  called  him  forty  Marchmen 
bauld. 
Were  kinsmen  to  the  bauld  Buc- 
cleuch ; 
With  spur  on  heel,  and  splent  on 
spauld. 
And  gleuves  of  green,  and  feath- 
ers blue. 

There  were  five  and  five  before  them 
a', 
Wi'    hunting-horns    and    bugles 
bright : 

*  Flame. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


303 


And    five  and  five  came  wi'   Buc- 
cleuch, 
Like  warden's  men,   arrayed  for 
fight. 

And  five  and  five,  like  a  mason  gang, 

That  carried  the  ladders  lang  and 

hie; 

And  five  and  five,  like  broken  men ; 

And  so  they  reached  the  Wood- 

houselee. 

And  as  we  crossed  the  Bateable  Land, 
When  to  the  English  side  we  held, 

The  first  o'  men  that  we  met  wi', 
Whae  sould  it  be  but  fause  Sa- 
kelde? 

"Where  be   ye   gaun,   ye   hunters 
keen?" 
Quo'  fause  Sakelde;  "come  tell  to 
me!"  — 
"  We  go  to  hunt  an  English  stag. 
Has  trespassed  on  the  Scots  coun- 
trie." 

"Where   be    ye   gaun,  ye  marshal 
men?" 
Quo'  fause  Sakelde;    "come  tell 
me  true ! " 
"We  go  to  catch  a  rank  reiver, 
Has  broken  faith  wi'   the  bauld 
Buccleuch." 

"Where  are  ye  gaun,  ye  mason  lads, 
Wi'  a'  your  ladders,  lang  and  hie  ?  " 

"  We  gang  to  herry  a  corbie's  nest, 
That   wons    not   far  frae  Wood- 
houselee." 

**  Where   be    ye   gaun,    ye   broken 

men?" 

Quo'  fause  Sakelde;    "come  tell 

tome!"  — 

Now  Dickie  of  Dryhope  led  that  band, 

And  the  nevir  a  word  of  lore  had  he. 

"Why  trespass  ye  on  the  English 
side? 
Row-footed  outlaws,  stand!"  quo' 
he; 
The  nevir  a  word  had  Dickie  to  say, 
Sae  he  thrust  the  lance  through 
his  fause  bodie. 

Then  on  we  held  for  Carlisle  toun. 
And  at  Staneshaw-bank  the  Eden 
we  crossed : 


The  water  was  great  and  meikle  of 
spait. 
But  the  nevir  a  horse   nor  man 
we  lost. 

And  when  we  reached  the  Stane- 
shaw-bank, 
The  wind  was  rising  loud  and  hie ; 
And  there  the  laird  garr'd  leave  our 
steeds, 
For  fear  that  they  should  stamp 
and  nie. 

And  when  we  left  the  Staneshaw- 
bank, 
The  wind  began  full  loud  to  blaw ; 
But  'twas  wind  and  weet,  and  fire 
and  sleet. 
When  we  came  beneath  the  castle 
wa'. 

We  crept  on  knees,   and  held  our 
breath. 
Till  we  placed  the  ladders  against 
the  wa' ; 
And  sae  ready  was  Buccleuch  him- 
sell 
To  mount  the  first  before  us  a'. 

He  has  ta'en  the  watchman  by  the 
throat. 
He  flung  him  down  upon  the  lead  — 
"Had  there  not  been  peace  between 
our  lands, 
Upon  the  other  side  thou  hadst 
gaed  I 

"Now  sound  out,  trumpets!"  quo' 
Buccleuch ; 
"Let's  waken  Lord  Scroope  right 
merrilie!" 
Then   loud    the  warden's   trumpet 
blew  — 
O  wha  dare  meddle  wV  me  ? 

Then  speedilie  to  wark  we  gaed. 
And  raised  the  slogan  ane  and  a', 

And  cut  a  hole  through  a  sheet  of 
lead, 
And  so  we  wan  to  the  castle  ha' . 

They  thought  King  James  and  a'  his 
men 
Had  won  the  house  wi'  bow  and 
spear ; 
It  was  but  twenty  Scots  and  ten. 
That    put   a   thousand   in  sic   a 
stear ! 


eS04 


PAENASSUS. 


Wi'  coulters,  and  wi'  forehammers, 
We  garr'd  the  bars  bang  merrilie, 

Untill  we  came  to  the  inner  prison, 
'Where  Willie  o'  Kinmont  he  did 
lie. 

A.nd  when  we  cam    to    the   lower 
prison, 
Where  Willie  o'  Kinmont  he  did 
lie,  — 
**0    sleep   ye,  wake   ye,    Kinmont 
Willie, 
Upon    the    morn  that  thou's    to 
die?" 

"01  sleep  saft,  and  I  wake  aft ; 
It's  lang  since  sleeping  was  fley'd 
f  rae  me ! 
Gie  my  service  back  to  my  wife  and 
bairns, 
And  a'  gude  fellows  that  spier  for 
me." 

Then  red  Rowan  has  hente  him  up. 
The  starkest  man  in  Teviotdale  — 

"Abide,  abide  now.  Red  Rowan, 
Till  of  my  Lord  Scroope  I  take 
farewell. 

"  Farewell,  farewell,  my  gude  Lord 
Scroope ! 
My  gude  Lord  Scroope,  farewell!" 
he  cried  — 
"  I'll  pay  you  for  my  lodging  maill, 
When  first  we  meet  on  the  Border 
side." 

Then  shoulder  high,  with  shout  and 
cry. 
We  bore  him  down  the  ladder  lang ; 
^t  every  stride  Red  Rowan  made, 
I  wot  the  Kinmont' s  aims  played 
clang ! 

"O  mony  a  time,"  quo'   Kinmont 

Willie, 

"I've  ridden  horse  baith  wild  and 

wood; 

But  a  rougher  beast  than  Red  Rowan 

I  ween  my  legs  have  ne'er  bestrode. 

"  And  mony  a  time,"  quo'  Kinmont 
Willie, 
"I've  pricked  a  horse  out    oure 
the  furs ; 
But  since  the  day  I  backed  a  steed, 
I     never     wore     sic     cumbrous 
spurs!" 


We  scarce  had  won  the  Staneshaw- 
bank, 
When  a'  the  Carlisle  bells  were 
rung, 
And  a  thousand  men  on  horse  and 
foot. 
Cam  wi'  the  keen  Lord  Scroope 
along. 

Buccleuch  has  turned  to  Eden  Wa- 
ter, 
Even  where  it  flowed  frae  bank  to 
brim. 
And  he  has  plunged  in  wi'  a'   his 
band, 
And  safely  swam  them  through 
the  stream. 

He  turned  him  on  the  other  side. 
And   at  Lord  Scroope    his  glove 
flung  he  — 
"If  ye  like  na  my  visit  in  merry 
England, 
In  fair  Scotland  come  visit  me!" 

All    sore    astonished     stood    Lord 
Scroope, 
He  stood  as  still  as  rock  of  stane ; 
He  scarcely  dared  to  trust  his  eyes. 
When  through  the  water  they  had 
gane. 

"He  is  either  himsell  a  devil  frae 
hell, 
Or  else  his  mother  a  witch  maun 
be; 
I  wadna  have  ridden  that  wan  water 
For  a'  the  gowd  in  Christentie." 
Scott's  Bobdeb  Minsteelsy. 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  o£ 

time. 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or   one-eyed    Calendar's    horse    of 

brass. 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak,  — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,   for  his    hard 
heart. 

Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 
in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehe:-d  I 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND   BALLADS. 


305 


Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  raiiied-oii  fowl. 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue. 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  re- 
frain : 
"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an   corr'd  in  a 
corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 
Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 
Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 
With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish- 
horns'  twang, 
Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang : 
"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 
corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Small  pity  for  him !  —  He  sailed  away 
From    a    leaking    ship,   in  Chaleur 

Bay,— 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her 

deck! 
"Lay  by!  lay  by!"   they  called  to 

him. 
Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again !  " 
^nd  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog 

and  rain ! 
Old  Floyd    Ireson,   for  his    hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid. 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marble- 
head 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might 

not  be ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds 
say 

20 


Of    the    cruel    captain    who    sailed 
away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 
in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp-tongued   spinsters,  old  wives 

gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and 

cane. 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse 

refrain : 
"  Here's  Flud  Oirson  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  I " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so 

blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim. 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 
"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 
corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

"Hear  me,  neighbors!"  at  last  he 

cried,  — 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  tliat  clothes  the 

skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives 

within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck. 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me   and    curse    me,  —  I  only 

dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the. 

dead! " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard 

heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  I 


306 


PARNASSUS. 


Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at 

sea' 
Said,  "  God  has  touched  him !  —  why 

should  we?" 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only 

son, 
*'  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him 

run!" 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  ex- 
cuse. 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him 

loose. 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in. 
And  left  him  alobe  with  his  shame 

and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 
Whittier. 


WIILLIAM  OF  CLOUDESLE. 

The  king  called  his  best  archers 
To  the  buttes  with  him  to  go, 
"I  will  see  these  fellows  shoot,"  he 
said, 
"In  the  north  have  wrought  this 
wo." 

The  king's  bowmen  busk  them  blyve, 
And  the  queen's  archers  alsoe. 

So  did  these  three  wight  yeomen 
With  them  they  thought  to  go. 

There  twice  or    thrice    they  shoot 
about 

For  to  assay  their  hand. 
There  was  no  shot  these  yeomen  shot 

That  any  prick  might  them  stand. 

Then  spake  William  of  Cloudesle, 
*'  By  him  that  for  me  died, 

I  hold  him  never  no  good  archer 
That  shooteth  at  buttes  so  wide." 

"Whereat?"  then  said  our  king, 

"  I  pray  thee  tell  me :  " 
"  At  such  a  butte,  sir,"  he  said, 

"As  men  use  in  my  countree." 

William  went  into  a  field, 
And  his  two  brethren  with  him, 

There  they  set  up  hazle  rods. 
Twenty  score  paces  between. 


"I  hold  him  an  archer,"  said  Clou- 
desle, 
"That  yonder  wande  cleaveth  in 
two." 
"Here  is  none  such,"  said  the  king, 
,    "  Nor  none  that  can  so  do." 

"I  shall  assay,  sir,"  said  Cloudesle', 

"Or  that  I  farther  go." 
Cloudesle  with  a  bearing  arrow 

Clave  the  wand  in  two. 

"Thou  art  the  best  archer,"  then 
said  the  king, 
"  Forsooth  that  ever  I  see ; "  — 
"  And  yet  for  your  love,"  said  Wil- 
liam, 
"  I  will  do  more  mastery. 

"  I  have  a  son  is  seven  years  old. 

He  is  to  me  full  dear ; 
I  will  him  tie  to  a  stake 

All  shall  see  that  be  here. 

"  And  lay  an  apple  upon  his  head, 
And  go  six  score  paces  him  fro, 

And  I  myself  with  a  broad  arrow 
Shall  cleave  the  apple  in  two." 

"Now  haste  thee  then,"   said  the 
king, 

"  By  him  that  died  on  a  tree ; 
But  if  thou  do  not  as  thou  hast  said, 

Hanged  shalt  thou  be. 

"  And  thou  touch  his  head  or  gown, 
In  sight  that  men  may  see, 

By  all  the  saints  that  be  in  Heaven, 
I  shall  hang  you  all  three ! " 

"That  I  have  promised,"  said  Wil- 
liam, 

"  I  will  it  never  forsake ; " 
And  there  even  before  the  king, 

In  the  earth  he  drove  a  stake. 

And  bound  thereto  his  eldest  son. 
And  bade  him  stand  still  thereat. 

And  turned  the  child's  head  from 
him. 
Because  he  should  not  start. 

An  apple  upon  his  head  he  set, 
And  then  his  bow  he  bent ; 

Six  score  paces  were  out-met. 
And  thither  Cloudesld  went. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS    AND   BALI^ADS. 


307 


There  he  di-ew  out  a  fair  broad  arrow, 
His  bow  was  great  and  long, 

He  set  that  arrow  in  his  bow, 
That  was  both  stiff  and  strong. 

He  prayed  the  people  that  was  there, 
That  they  would  still  stand, 

"For  he  that  shooteth  for  such  a 
wager, 
Behoveth  a  steadfast  hand." 

Much  people  prayed  for  Cloudesle', 
That  his  life  saved  might  be. 

And  when  he  made  him  ready  to 
shoot 
There  was  many  a  weeping  eye. 

Thus  Cloudesle  cleft  the  apple  in  two 
That  many  a  man  might  see ; 

"Over-gods  forbode,"  then  said  the 
king, 
"  That  thou  should  shoot  at  me ! 

"  I  give  thee  eighteen  pence  a  day. 
And  my  bow  shalt  thou  bear, 

And  over  all  the  north  country 
I  make  thee  chief  rider." 

Anon. 

THE  HEIR  OF  LINNE. 

PART  THE   FIRST. 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen. 
To  sing  a  song  I  will  beginne : 
It  is  of  a  lord  of  faire  Scotland, 
Which  was  the   unthrifty  heire  of 
Linne. 

His  father  was  a  right  good  lord, 
His  mother  a  lady  of  high  degree ; 
But  they,  alas !  were  dead  him  froe, 
And  he  lov'd  keeping  companie. 

To  spend  the  day  with  merry  cheer. 
To  drink  and  revell  every  night. 
To  card  and  dice  from  eve  to  morn. 
It  was,  I  ween,  his  heart's  delight. 

To  ride,  to  run,  to  rant,  to  roar. 
To  alway  spend  and  never  spare, 
I  wott,  an'  it  were  the  king  himself. 
Of  gold  and  fee  he  mote  be  bare. 

So  fares  the  unthrifty  lord  of  Linne, 
Till  all  his  gold  is  gone  and  spent : 
And  he  maun  sell  his  landes  so  broad, 
His  house,  and  landes,  and  all  his  rent. 


His  father  had  a  keen  stewarde. 
And  John  o'  the  Scales  was  called 

he: 
But  John  is  become  a  gentel-man. 
And  John  has  gott  both  gold  and  fee. 

Sayes  "  Welcome,  welcome.  Lord  of 

Linne, 
Let  nought  disturb  thy  merry  cheer: 
If  thou  wilt  sell  thy  landes  so  broad. 
Good  store  of   gold  I'll  give  thee 

here." 

"My  gold    is  gone,   my    money    is 

spent ; 
My  lande  nowe  take  it  unto  thee : 
Give  me  the  golde,  good  John  o'  the 

Scales, 
And  thine  for  aye  my  lande  shall 

be." 

Then  John  he  did  him  to  record 

draw. 
And    John   he    cast   him    a   gods- 

pennie ; 
But    for    every    pound    that    John 

agreed. 
The  lande,  I  wis,  was  well  worth 

three. 

He  told  him  the  gold  upon  the  horde, 
He  was  right  glad  his  land  to  winne ; 
"  The  gold  is  thine,  the  land  is  mine, 
And  now  I'll  be  the  lord  of  Linne." 

Thus  he  hath  sold  his  land  so  broad, 
Both  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and 

fen. 
All  but  a  poor  and  lonesome  lodge. 
That  stood  far  off  in  a  lonely  glen. 

For  so  he  to  his  father  hight. 

"  My  son,  when  I  am  gone,"  said  he, 

"  Then  thou  wilt  spend  thy  land  so 

broad, 
And  thou  wilt  spend  thy  gold  so  free. 

"  But  swear  me  now  upon  the  rood, 
That  lonesome  lodge  thou' It  never 

spend ; 
For  when  all  the  world  doth  frown 

on  thee, 
Thou    there    shalt   find    a    faithful 

friend." 

The  heir  of  Linne  is  full  of  gold : 
"And  come  with  me,  my  friends," 
said  he. 


308 


PARNASSUS. 


"Let's  drink,  and  rant,  and  merry 

make, 
And  he  that  spares,  ne'er  mote  be 

thee." 

They    ranted,    drank,     and    merry 

made, 
Till  all  his  gold  it  waxed  thin ; 
And    then    his  friends   they  slunk 

away; 
They   left    the    unthrifty   heir   of 

Linne. 

He  had  never  a  penny  left  in  his 

purse, 
Never  a  penny  left  but  three, 
And  one  was  brass,  another  was  lead, 
And  another  it  was  white  money. 

"Now  well-a-day  "  said  the  heir  of 

Linne, 
"  Now  well-a-day,  and  woe  is  me, 
For  when  I  was  the  lord  of  Linne, 
I  never  wanted  gold  nor  fee. 

*'  But  many  a  trusty  friend  have  I, 
And  why  should  I  feel  dole  or  care  ? 
I'll  borrow  of  them  all  by  turns, 
So  need  I  not  be  never  bare." 

But  one  I  wis,  was  not  at  home ; 
Another  had  paid  his  gold  away ; 
Another  called  him  thriftless  loon. 
And  bade  him  sharply  wend  his  way. 

"Now  well-a-day,"  said  the  heir  of 

Linne, 
"Now  well-a-day,  and  woe  is  me; 
For  when  I  had  my  landes  so  broad, 
On  me  they  lived  right  merrily. 

"  To  beg  my  bread  from  door  to  door, 
I  wis,  it  were  a  burning  shame ; 
To  rob  and  steal  it  were  a  sin ; 
To  work,  my  limbs  I  cannot  frame. 

"  Now  I'll  away  to  the  lonesome  lodge. 
For  there  my  father  bade  me  wend : 
When  all  the  world  should  frown  on 

me 
I  there  should  find  a  trusty  friend." 

PART  THE   SECOND. 

Away  then  hied  the  heir  of  Linne, 
O'er  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and  fen, 
Until  he  came  to  the  lonesome  lodge, 
That  stood  so  low  in  a  lonely  glen. 


He  looked  up,  he  looked  down. 
In  hope  some  comfort  for  to  win ; 
But  bare  and  lothly  were  the  walls ; 
"  Here's  sorry  cheer,"  quo'  the  heir 
of  Linne. 

The  little  window,  dim  and  dark. 
Was  hung  with  ivy,  brere  and  yew ; 
No  shimmering  sun  here  ever  shone, 
No  halesome  breeze  here  ever  blew. 

No  chair,  ne  table  he  mote  spy, 

No  cheerful  hearth,  ne  welcome  bed, 

Nouglit  save  a  rope  with  renning 

noose, 
That  dangling  hung  up  o'er  his  head. 

And  over  it  in  broad  letters 

These  words  were  written  so  plain 

to  see : 
"Ah!  gracelesse  wretch,  hast  spent 

thine  all, 
And  brought  thyself  to  penurie  ? 

"  All  this  my  boding  mind  misgave, 
I  therefore  left  this  trusty  friend : 
Let  it  now  shield  thy  foul  disgrace, 
And  all  thy  shame  and  sorrows  end." 

Sorely  shent  wi'  this  rebuke. 
Sorely  shent  was  the  heire  of  Linne : 
His  heart  I  wis,  was  near  to  brast 
With  guilt  and  sorrow,  shame  and 
sin. 

Never  a  word  spake  the    heir    of 

Linne, 
Never  a  word  he  spake  but  tliree : 
"  This  is  a  trusty  friend  indeed, 
And  is  right  welcome  unto  me." 

Then  round  his  neck  the  cord  he 

drew, 
And  sprang  aloft  with  his  bodie. 
When  lo !  the  ceiling  burst  in  twain. 
And  to  the  ground  came  tumbling  he. 

Astonyed  lay  the  heir  of  Linne, 
He  knew  if  he  were  live  or  dead: 
At  length  he  looked,  and  sawe  a  bille. 
And  in  it  a  key  of  gold  so  red. 

He  took  the  bill,  and  lookt  it  on. 
Straight    good    comfort    found    he 

there : 
It  told  him  of  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
In  which  there  stood  three  chests  in- 

fere. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


309 


Two  were  full  of  the  beaten  golde, 
The  third  was  full  of  white  mone'y ; 
And  over  them  in  broad  letters 
These  words  were  written  so  plain 
to  see. 

"  Once  more,  my  sonne,  I  set  thee 

clere ; 
Amend  thy  life  and  follies  past ; 
For  but  thou  amend  thee  of  thy  life, 
That  rope  must  be  thy  end  at  last." 

"And  let  it  be"  said  the  heire  of 

Linne, 
"  And  let  it  be,  but  if  I  amend: 
For  here  I  will  make  mine  avow, 
This  reade  shall  guide  me  to  the 

end." 

Away   then   went    with    a    merry 

cheare, 
Away  then  went  the  heire  of  Linne ; 
I  wis,  he  neither  ceased  ne  blanne, 
Till  John  o'  the  Scales  house  he  did 

winne. 

And  when  he  came  to  John  o'  the 

Scales, 
Up  at  the  speere  then  looked  he : 
There  sate  three  lords  upon  a  rowe. 
Were  drinking  of  the  wine  so  free. 

And  John  himself  sate  at  the  bord- 

liead, 
Because  now  lord  of  Linne  was  he ; 
"I  pray  thee"  he  said,  "good  John 

o'  the  Scales, 
One  forty  pence  for  to  lend  me." 

"Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loone; 

Away,  away,  this  may  not  be : 

For  Christ's  curse  on  my  head"  he 

said, 
"  If  ever  I  trust  thee  one  pennie." 

Then  bespake  the  heir  of  Linne, 
To  John  o'   the    Scajes'   wife  then 

spake  he : 
"Madame,  some    almes  on  me  be- 

stowe, 
I  pray  for  sweet  saint  Charitie." 

"Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loone, 
I  sweare  thou  gettest  no  almes   of 

me; 
For  if  we  should  hang  any  losel  here, 
The  first  we  wold  begin  with  thee." 


Then  bespake  a  good  fellowe, 
Which  sat  at  John  o'  the  Scales  his 

bord; 
Said,    "Turn  again,   thou    heir  of 

Linne ; 
Some  time  *hou  wast  a  ^ell  good  lord. 

"  Some  time  a  good  fellow  thou  hast 

been. 
And  sparedst  not  thy  gold  and  fee ; 
Therefore  I'll  lend  thee  forty  pence, 
And  other  forty  if  need  be. 

"And  ever  I  pray  thee,  John  o'  the 

Scales, 
To  let  him  sit  in  thy  companie : 
For  well  I  wot  thou  hadst  his  land, 
And  a  good  bargain  it  was  to  thee." 

Up  then  spake  him  John  o'  the  Scales, 
All  wood  he  answered  him  againe : 
"Now  Christ's  curse  on  my  head" 

he  said, 
"But  I  did  lose  by  that  bargaine. 

And  here  I  proffer  thee,  heir  of 
Linne, 

Before  these  lords  so  faire  and  free. 

Thou  slialt  have  it  backe  again  bet- 
ter cheape 

By  a  hundred  markes  than  I  had  it 
of  thee." 

"I  draw  you  to  record,  lords,"  he  said, 
With  that  he  cast  him  a  gods-pennie : 
"  Now  by  my  fay  "  said  the  heire  of 

Linne, 
"And    here,    good    John,    is    thy 

money." 

And  he  pulled  forth  three  bagges  of 

gold. 
And  laid  them  down  upon  the  bord ; 
All  woe  begone  was  John  o'    the 

Scales, 
So  shent  he  could  say  never  a  word. 

He  told  him  forth  the  good  red  gold. 
He  told  it  forth  with  mickle  dinne. 
"  The  gold  is  thine,  the  land  is  mine, 
And  now  Ime  againe  the  lord  of 
Linne." 

Says,  "Have  thou  here,  thou  good 

fellowe, 
Forty  pence  thou  didst  lend  me : 
Now  I  am  again  the  lord  of  Linne, 
And  forty  pounds  I  will  give  thee. 


310 


PARNASSUS. 


"  He  make  thee  keeper  of  my  forrest, 
Both  of  the  wild  deere  and  the  tame; 
For  but  I  reward  thy  bounteous  heart, 
I  wis,  good  fellowe,  I  were  to  blame." 

"  Now  welladay ! "   sayth    Joan    o' 

the  Scales ; 
"Now  welladay,  and  woe  is  my  life! 
Yesterday  I  was  lady  of  Linne, 
Now  Ime  but  John  o'  the  Scales  his 

wife." 

"  Now  fare  thee  well "  said  the  heire 

of  Linne, 
"Farewell  now,  John o'  the  Scales," 

said  he : 
"  Christ's  curse  light  on  me,  if  ever 

again 
I  bring  my  lands  in  jeopardy." 

Percy's  Reliques. 


SIEGE  AND  CONQUEST   OF 
ALHAMA. 

The    Moorish    king   rides    up  and 

down 
Through  Granada's  royal  town; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  I 

Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama' s  city  fell ; 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his 

horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his 

course ; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

When  the  Alhambra  walls  he  gained, 

On  the  moment  he  ordained 

That  the  trumpet  straight   should 

sound. 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before, 
"  Wlierefore  call  on  us,  O  king? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering?" 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


"Friends!  ye  have,  alas!  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow, 
That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold. 
Have  obtained  Alhama's  hold." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  J 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see, 
"  Good  king,  thou  art  justly  served, 
Good  king,  this  thou  hast  deserved. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  And  for  this,  O  king!  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement. 
Thee    and    thine,    thy    crown    and 

realm. 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! " 

Fire  flashed  from  out  the  old  Moor's 

eyes. 
The  monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answered,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

"  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings : "  — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  king,  and  doomed  him 
dead. 

Woe  is  me,  Almaha ! 

Moor  Alfaqui !  Moor  Alfaqui  I 
Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be. 
The  king  hath  sent  to  have  thee 

seized, 
For  Alhama's  loss  displeased. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra' s  loftiest  stone; 
That  this  for  thee   should   be  the 

law, 
And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

"  Cavalier !  and  man  of  worth ! 
Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth; 
Let  the  Moorish  monarch  know. 
That  to  him  I  nothing  owe. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


311 


"  But  on  my  soul  Alharaa  weighs, 
And  on  my  inmost  spirit  preys ; 
And  if  the  king  his  land  hath  lost, 
Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most." 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor 

said. 
They  severed  from  the  trunk    his 

head ;  • 

And  to  Alhambra's  wall  with  speed 
'Twas  carried  as  the  king  decreed. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  from    the    windows    o'er   the 

walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls ! 
The  king  weeps  as  a  woman  o'er 
His  loss,  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 
Byron. 


THE  RELIEF  OF  LUCKNOW. 

Oh,  that  last  day  in  Lucknow  fort ! 

We  knew  that  it  was  the  last ; 
That  the  enemy's  lines  crept  surely 
on, 

And  the  end  was  coming  fast. 

To  yield  to   that  foe  meant  worse 
than  death ; 
And  the  men  and  we  all  worked 
on; 
It  was  one  day  more  of  smoke  and 
roar, 
And  then  it  would  all  be  done. 

There  was  one  of  us,  a  corporal's 
wife, 

A  fair,  young,  gentle  thing. 
Wasted  with  fever  in  the  siege. 

And  her  mind  was  wandering. 

She  lay  on  the  ground,  in  her  Scot- 
tish plaid. 
And  I  took  her  head  on  my  knee ; 
"  When  my  father  comes  hame  frae 
the  pleugh,"  she  said, 
" Oh!  then  please  wauken  me." 

She  slept  like  a  child  on  her  father's 

floor, 
,     In  the  flecking  of  woodbine-shade. 
When  the  house-dog  sprawls  by  the 
open  door, 
And  the  mother's  wheel  is  stayed. 


It  was  smoke  and  roar  and  powder- 
stench, 
And  hopeless  waiting  for  death; 
And  the  soldier's  wife,  like  a  full- 
tired  child. 
Seemed  scarce  to  draw  her  breath. 

I    sank   to    sleep;    and    I  had  my 
dream 
Of  an  English  village-lane, 
And    wall    and  garden; — but    one 
wild  scream 
Brought  me  back  to  the  roar  again. 

There  Jessie  Brown  stood  listening 
Till  a  sudden  gladness  broke 

All  over  her  face ;  and  she  caught  my 
hand 
And  drew  me  near  as  she  spoke :  — 

"  The  Hielanders !  O !  dinna  ye  hear 

The  slogan  far  awa  ? 
The  McGregor's.     O !  I  ken  it  weel; 

It's  the  grandest  o'  them  a' ! 

"  God  bless  the  bonny  Hielanders! 
We're  saved!  we're  saved!"   she 
cried ; 
And  fell  on  her  knees ;  and  thanks 
to  God 
Flowed  forth  like  a  full  flood-tide. 

Along  the  battery-line  her  cry 
Had  fallen  among  the  men. 

And  they  started  back ;  —  they  were 
there  to  die ; 
But  was  life  so  near  them,  then  ? 

They  listened  for  life;  the  rattling 
fire 
Far  off,  and  the  far-off  roar. 
Were  all ;  and  the  colonel  shook  his 
head, 
And  they  turned  to    their   guns 
once  more. 

But  Jessie  said,  "  The  slogan's  done ; 

But  winna  ye  hear  it  noo. 
TJie  Campbells  are  comirC  f   It's  no  a 
dream ; 

Our  succors  hae  broken  through ! " 

We  heard  the  roar  and  the  rattle 
afar, 
But  the  pipes  we  could  not  hear ; 
So  the  men  plied  their  work  of  hope- 
less war. 
And  knew  that  the  end  was  near. 


312 


PARNASSUS. 


It  was  not  long  ere  it  made  its  way, — 
A  thriling,  ceaseless  sound : 

It  was  no  noise  from  the  strife  afar, 
Or  the  sappers  under  ground. 

It  was  the  pipes  of  the  Highlanders ! 
And  now  they  played  Auld  Lang 
Syne. 
It  came  to  our  men  like  the  voice  of 
God, 
And  they  shouted  along  the  line. 

And  they  wept,  and  shook  one  an- 
other's hands, 
And  the  women  sobbed  in  a  crowd ; 
And  every  one  knelt  down  where  he 
stood. 
And  we  all  thanked  God  aloud. 

That  happy  time,  when  we  welcomed 
them. 
Our  men  put  Jessie  first ; 
And  the. general  gave  her  his  hand, 
and  cheers 
Like  a  storm  from  the    soldiers 
burst. 

And  the  pipers'  ribbons  and  tartan 
streamed, 
Marching  round  and  round    our 
line ; 
And  our  joyful  cheers  were  broken 
with  tears. 
As  the  pipes  played  Auld  Lamj 
Syne. 

RoBEBT  Lowell. 


SIR  ANDREW  BARTON. 

THE   FIRST  PART. 

When  Flora  with  her  fragrant  flow- 
ers 
Bedeckt  the  earth    so  trim    and 


gaye, 

Ne 


And  Neptune  with  his  dainty  show- 
ers 
Came  to  present  the   month    of 
Mayc, 
King  Henry  rode  to  take  the  air. 

Over  the  River  Thames  past  he ; 
When  eighty  merchants  of  Loudon 
came. 
And  down  they  knelt  upon  their 
knee. 


"  O  ye  are  welcome,  rich  merchants, 
Good  saylors,  welcome  unto  me : " 
They  swore  by  the  rood,  they  were 
saylors  good, 
But  rich  merchants  they  could  not 
be. 
"To  France  nor  Flanders  dare  we 
pass. 
Nor  Bordeaux  voyage  dare  we  fare, 
«*Lnd  all  for  a  robber  that  lyes  on  the 
seas. 
Who    robs  us    of    our    merchant 
ware." 

King  Henry  frowned,   and    turned 
him  round. 
And  swore  by  the  Lord  that  was 
mickle  of  might, 
**  I  thought  he  had  not  been  in  the 
world, 
Durst  have  wrought  England  such 
unright." 
The    merchants     sighed    and    said, 
"Alas!" 
And  thus  they  did  their  answer 
frame ; 
"  He  is  a  proud  Scot  that  robs  on 
the  seas. 
And    Sir  Andrew  Barton    is    his 
name." 

The  king  looked  over  his  left  shoul- 
der, 
And  an  angry  look  then  looked  he ; 
"  Have  I  never  a  lord  in  all  my  realm 
Will  fetch  yond  traitor  unto  me  ?  " 
"Yea,  that  dare  I,"  Lord  Charles 
Howard  says ; 
"  Yea,  that  dare  I  with  heart  and 
hand; 
If  it  please  your  grace  to  give  me 
leave, 
Myself  will  be  the  only  man." 

"Thou  art    but  young,"  the  king 
replied, 
"Yond  Scot  hath  numbered  many 
a  year:" 
"  Trust  me,  my  liege,  I'll  make  him 
quail, 
Or  before  my    prince    I'll  never 
appear." 
"Then  bowmen  and  gunners  thou 
shalt  have, 
And  chuse  them  over  my  realm  so 
free; 
Besides  mariners  and  good  sea-boys 
To  guide  the  great  ship  on  the  sea." 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  AND   BALLADS. 


313 


The   first  man  tliat  Lord    Howard 
chose, 
Was  the  ablest  gunner  in  all  the 
realm, 
Though  he  was  threescore  years  and 
ten; 
Good  Peter  Simon  was  his  name. 
"Peter,"  says  he,  "I  must  to  the 
sea 
To  bring  home  a  traitor  live  or 
dead; 
Before  all  others  I  have  chosen  thee, 
Of  a  hundred  gunners  to  be  the 
head." 

*'  If  you,  my  lord,  have  chosen  me 
Of  a  hundred  gunners  to  be  the 
head. 
Then   hang  me  up  on  your  main- 
mast tree. 
If  I  miss  my  mark  one  shilling 
bread."  * 
My  lord  then  chose  a  bowman  rare, 
Whose  active  hands    had  gained 
fame ; 
In  Yorkshire  was    this    gentleman 
born. 
And  William    Horseley  was    his 
name. 

"Horseley,"  said  he,  "I  must  with 
speed 
Go  seek  a  traitor  on  the  sea. 
And    now    of    a  hundred   bowmen 
brave 
To  be    the  head  I  have    chosen 
thee." 
"If  you,"  quoth  he,  "have  chosen 
me 
Of  a  hundred  bowmen  to  be  the 
head. 
On  your  mainmast  I'll  hanged  be, 
If  I  miss  twelvescore  one  penny 
bread." 

With  pikes,  and  guns,  and  bowmen 
bold, 
This  noble  Howard  is  gone  to  the 
sea; 
With  a  valiant  heart  and  a  pleasant 
cheer. 
Out  at  Thames  mouth  sailed  he. 
A-nd  days  he  scant  had  sailed  three, 
Upon  the  journey  he  took  in  hand, 
But  there  he  met  with  a  noble  ship. 
And    stoutly    made    it    etay    and 
stand. 

*  Broad. 


"  Thou  must  tell  me,"  Lord  Howard 
said, 
"  Now  who  thou  art,  and  what's 
thy  name ; 
And  show  me  where  thy  dwelling  is, 
And  whither  bound,  and  whence 
thou  came." 
"My  name  is  Henry  Hunt,"  quoth 
he. 
With  a  heavy  heart  and  a  careful 
mind; 
"  I  and  my  ship  do  both  belong 
To  the  Newcastle  that  stands  upon 
Tyne." 

"  Hast  thou  not  heard,  now,  Henry 
Hunt, 
As  thou  hast  sailed  by  day  and  by 
night. 
Of  a  Scottish  robber  on  the  seas ; 
Men  call  him  Sir  Andrew  Barton, 
knight?" 
Then    ever    he    sighed,    and    said, 
"Alas!" 
With  a  grieved  mind    and  well- 
away, 
"  But  over- well  I  know  that  wight ; 
I  was  his  prisoner  yesterday. 

"  As  I  was  sailing  upon  the  sea, 

A  Bordeaux  voyage  for  to  fare, 
To  his  hachborde  he  clasped  me. 

And  robbed  me  of  all  my  merchant 
ware. 
And  mickle  debts,  God  wot,  I  owe. 

And  every  man  will  have  his  own, 
And  I  am  now  to  London  bound, 

Of  our  gracious  king  to  beg  a  boon." 

"  Thou  shalt  not  need,"  Lord  How- 
ard says ; 
"  Let  me  but  once  that  robber  see, 
For  everj^  penny  tane  thee  fro 
It    shall     be     doubled     shillings 
three." 
"Now  God  forfend,"  the  merchant 
said, 
"That  you   should    seek    so    far 
amiss ! 
God  keep  you  out  of  that  traitor's 
hands ! 
Full  little  ye  wot  what  a  man  he  is. 

"  He  is  brass  within,  and  steel  with- 
out. 

With  beams  on  his  topcastle  strong ; 
And  eighteen  pieces  of  ordinance 

He  carries  on  each  side  along. 


314 


PARNASSUS. 


"And    he    hath    a   pinnace  dearly 
dight, 
St.   Andrew's  cross,   that    is    his 
guide ; 
His  pinnace  beareth  ninescore  men, 
And  fifteen  cannons  on  each  side. 

"  Were  ye  twenty  ships,  and  he  but 
one, 
I  swear  by  kirk,  and  bower,  and 
hall. 
He  would  overcome  them  every  one, 
If  once  his  beams  they  do  down- 
fall." 
"This  is  cold    comfort,"    said    my 
lord, 
"To  welcome  a  stranger  thus  to 
the  sea : 
Yet  I'll  bring  him  and  his  ship  to 
the  shore, 
Or  to  Scotland  he  shall  carry  me." 

"Then  a  noble  gunner  you  must 
have, 

And  he  must  aim  well  with  his  ee, 
And  sink  his  pinnace  into  the  sea, 

Or  else  he  never  overcome  will  be. 
And  if  you  chance  his  ship  to  board. 

This  counsell  I  must  give  withal. 
Let  no  man  to  his  topcastle  go 

To  strive  to  let  his  beams  down- 
fall. 

"  And  seven  pieces  of  ordinance, 

I  pray  your  honor  lend  to  me. 
On  each  side  of  my  ship  along, 

And  I  will  lead  you  on  the  sea. 
A  glass  I'll  get,  that  may  be  seen, 

Whether  you  sail  by  day  or  night, 
And  to-morrow,  I  swear,  by  nine  of 
the  clock, 

You  shall  meet  with  Sir  Andrew 
Barton,  knight." 

THE  SECOND  PART. 

The  merchant  sette  my  lord  a  glass, 

So  well  apparent  in  his  sight. 
And  on  the  morrow,  by  nine  of  the 
clock, 
He  showed  him  Sir  Andrew  Bar- 
ton, knight. 
His  hacheborde  it  was  hached  with 
gold, 
So  dearly  dight  it  dazzled  the  ee ; 
"  Now,  by  my  faith,"  Lord  Howard 
said, 
"  This  Is  a  gallant  sight  to  see. 


"  Take  in  your  ancients,  standards 
eke. 
To  close  that  no  man  may  them 
see; 
And  put  me  forth  a  white  willow 
wand, 
As  merchants  use  to  sail  the  sea." 
But  they  stirred    neither    top    nor 
mast; 
Stoutly  they  passed  Sir  Andrew  by ; 
"What  English  churls  are  yonder," 
he  said, 
"  That  can  so  little  curtesie? 

"  Now  by  the  rood,  three  years  and 
more 
I  have  been  admiral  over  the  sea, 
And  never  an  English  or  Portugal, 
Without  my  leave  can  pass  this 
way." 
Then  called  he  forth  his  stout  pin- 
nace ; 
"  Fetch  back  yon  peddlers  now  to 
me: 
I  swear  by  the  mass,  yon  English 
churls 
Shall  all  hang  at  my  mainmast 
tree." 

With  that  the  pinnace  it  shot  off; 
Full  well  Lord  Howard  might  it 
ken; 
For  it  stroke  down  my  lord's  fore- 
mast, 
And  killed  fourteen  of  his  men. 
"  Come  hither,  Simon,"  says  my  lord, 
"Look    that    thy  word  be    true, 
thou  said : 
For  at  the  mainmast  shalt  thou  hang. 
If  thou  miss  thy  mark  one  shilling 
bread." 

Simon  was  old,  but  his  heart  was 
bold : 

His  ordinance  he  laid  right  low: 
He  put  in  chain  full  nine  yards  long, 

With   other  great  shot    less   and 
moe, 
And  he  let  go  his  great  gun's  shott; 

So  well  he  settled  it  with  his  ee, 
The  first  sight  that  Sir  Andrew  saw. 

He  saw  his  pinnace  sunk  in  the  sea. 

And  when  he  saw  his  pinnace  sunk, 
Lord,  how  his  heart  with  rage  did 
swell ! 
"  Now,  cut  my  ropes,  it  is  time  to  be 
gone ; 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


315 


I'll  fetch  yoii  peddlers  back  my- 
sell." 
When  my  lord  saw  Sir  Andrew  loose, 
Within  his  heart  he  was  full  fain ; 
"Now  spread  your  ancients,  strike 
up  drums, 
Sound    all    your    trumpets     out 
amain." 

"Fight  on,  my  men,"   Sir  Andrew 
says, 

"  Weale,  howsoever  this  gear  will 
sway : 
It  is  my  lord  admiral  of  England, 

Is  come  to  seek  me  on  the  sea." 
Simon  had  a  son  who  shot  right  well, 

That  did  Sir  Andrew  mickle  scare ; 
In  at  his  deck  he  gave  a  shot, 

Killed  threescore  of  his  men  of  war. 

Then  Henry  Hunt,  with  vigor  hot. 

Came  bravely  on  the  other  side ; 
Soon  he  drove  down  his  foremast  tree, 

And  killed  fourscore  men  beside. 
"  Now,  out  alas !"  Sir  Andrew  cried, 

"  Wliat  may  a  man  now  think  or 
say? 
Yonder  merchant  thief  that  pierceth 
me. 

He  was  my  prisoner  yesterday. 

"  Come  hither  to  me,  thou  Gordon 
good. 
That  aye  was  ready  at  my  call ; 
I    will    give    thee    three    hundred 
pounds 
If  thou  wilt  let  my  beams  down- 
fall." 
Lord  Howard  he  then  called  in  haste, 
"Horsely,  see    thou   be   true   in 
stead ; 
For  thou  slialt  at  the  mainmast  hang. 
If  thou  miss  twelvescore  one  pen- 
ny bread." 

Then  Gordon  swarved  the  mainmast 
tree, 
He  swarved  it  with    might    and 
main ; 
But  Horsely  with  a  bearing  arrow 
Stroke  the  Gordon   through    the 
brain ; 
And  he  fell  unto  the  haches  again, 
And  sore  his  deadly  wound  did 
bleed : 
Then  word  went  through  Sir  An- 
drew's men, 
How  that  the  Gordon  he  was  dead. 


"  Come  hither  to  me,  James  Ham- 
bilton, 
Thou  art  my  only  sister's  son ; 
If  thou  wilt  let  my  beams  downfall, 
Six  hundred  nobles  thou  hast  won." 
With  that  he  swarved  the  mainmast 
tree, 
He  swarved  it  with  nimble  art ; 
But  Horsely  with  a  broad  arrow 
Pierced  the    Hambilton    through 
the  heart ; 

And  down,  he  fell  upon  the  deck. 
That  with  his  blood  did    stream 
amain : 
Then  every  Scot  cried,  "  Walaway ! 

Alas,  a  comely  youth  is  slain!" 
All  wo  begone  was  Sir  Andrew  then, 
With  grief  and  rage  his  heart  did 
swell ; 
"  Go  fetch  me  forth   my  armor  of 
proof, 
For  I  will  to  the  topcastle  mysell. 

"  Go  fetch  me  forth  my  armor  of 
proof. 
That  gilded  is  with  gold  so  clear; 
God  be  with  my  brother,  John  of 
Barton ! 
Against  the  Portugalls  he  it  ware. 
And  when  he  had  on  this  armor  of 
proof. 
He  was  a  gallant  sight  to  see ; 
Ah!  ne'er  didst  thou  meet  with  liv- 
ing wight, 
My  dear  brother,  could  cope  with 
thee." 

"Come  hither,  Horsely,"   says  my 
lord, 
"  And  look  your  shaft  that  it  go 
right ; 
Shoot  a  good  shot  in  time  of  need. 
And  for  it  thou  shalt  be  made  a 
knight." 
"I'll  shoot  my  best,"  quoth  Horsely 
then, 
"  Your  honor  shall  see,  with  might 
and  main ; 
But  if  I  were  hanged  at  your  main- 
mast, 
I  have  now  left  but  arrows  twain." 

Sir  Andrew  he  did  swaiTe  the  tree. 
With  right  goodwill  he  swarved  it 
then. 

Upon  his  breast  did  Horsely  hitt. 
But  the  arrow  bounded  back  again. 


316 


PAIINASSUS. 


Then  Horsely  spied  a  private  place, 
With  a  perfect  eye,  in  a  secret  part ; 

Under  the  spole  of  his  right  ai-m 
He  smote  Sir  Andrew  to  the  heart. 

"Fight  on,  my  men,"  Sir  Andrew 
says, 
"A  httle  I'm  hurt,  but  yet  not 
slain; 
I'll  but  lie  down  and  bleed  awhile, 

And  then  I'll  rise  and  fight  again. 

Fight   on,   my  men,"    Sir    Andrew 

says, 

"  And  never  flinch  before  the  foe ; 

And    stand    fast    by  St.   Andrew's 

cross. 

Until  you  hear  my  whistle  blow." 

They  never  heard  his  whistle  blow, 
Which  made  their  hearts  wax  sore 
adread : 
Then  Horsely  said,   "Aboard,  my 
lord, 
For   well    I    wot    Sir    Andrew's 
dead." 
They  boarded  then  his  noble  ship. 
They  boarded  it  with  might  and 
main ; 
Eighteen    score    Scots    alive    they 
found. 
The  rest  were  either  maimed  or 
slain. 

Lord  Howard  took  a  sword  in  hand. 
And  off   he  smote  Sir  Andrew's 
head ; 
"  I  must  have  left  England  many  a 
day. 
If   thou  wert  alive  as    thou    art 
dead." 
He  caused  his  body  to  be  cast 

Over  the  hatchbord  into  the  sea, 
And  about  his  middle  three  hundred 
crowns : 
"Wlierever  thou  land,  this  will 
bury  thee." 

Thus  from  the  wars  Lord  Howard 
came, 
And  back  he  sailed  o'er  the  main ; 
With  mickle  joy  and  triumphing 
Into   Thames'    mouth    he     came 
again. 
Lord  Howard  then  a  letter  wrote. 

And  sealed  it  with  seal  and  ring: 
"  Such  a  noble  prize  have  I  brought 
to  your  grace 
As  never  did  subject  to  a  king. 


*'  Sir  Andrew's  ship  I  bring  with  me, 

A  braver  ship  was  never  none ; 
Now  hath  your  grace  two  ships  of 
war. 
Before  in  England  was  but  one." 
King     Henry's    grace    with    royal 
cheer 
Welcomed     the     noble     Howard 
home ; 
"And  where,"  said  he,  "is  this  ro- 
ver stout. 
That    I    myself    may    give     the 
doom?" 

"  The  rover,  he  is  safe,  my  liege. 
Full  many  a  fathom  in  the  sea ; 
If  he  were  alive  as  he  is  dead, 
I  must  have  left  England  many  a 
day. 
And  your  grace  may  thank  four  men 
in  the  ship. 
For  the  victory  we  have  won ; 
These  are  William  Horsely,  Henry 
Hunt, 
And  Peter  Simon,  and  his  son." 

"To  Henry  Hunt,"  the  king  then 
said, 
"In  lieu  of  what  was  from  thee 
taen, 
A  noble  a  day  now  thou  shalt  have. 
Sir    Andrew's    jewels    and     his 
chain. 
And  Horsely  thou  shalt  be  a  knight. 
And  lands  and  livings  shalt  have 
store ; 
Howard  shall  be  Earl  Surry  hight. 
As  Howards  erst  have  been  before. 

"Now  Peter  Simon,  thou  art  old, 

I  will  maintain  thee  and  thy  son ; 
And  the  men  shall  have  five  hun- 
dred marks 
For  the  good  service  they  have 
done." 
Then  in  came  the  queen  with  ladies 
fair. 
To  see  Sir  Andrew  Barton,  knight; 
They  weened  that  he  were  brought 
on  shore. 
And  thought  to  have  seen  a  gal- 
lant sight. 

But  when  they  see  his  deadly  face. 
And  eyes  so  hollow  in  his  head, 

"I  would  give,"  quoth  the  king,  "  a 
thousand  marks. 
This  man  were  alive  as  he  is  dead. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


317 


Yet  for  the  manful  part  he  played, 
Which  fought  so  well  with  heart 
and  hand, 
His  men  shall  have  twelvepence  a  day, 
Till    they    come    to    my  brother 
king's  high  land." 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS. 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine : 

"  O  where  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper 
To  sail  this  new  ship  of  mine?" 

O  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight, 
Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee : 

"  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 
That  ever  sailed  the  sea." 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 
And  sealed  it  with  his  hand. 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 
Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

''  To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 
To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem ; 

The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 
'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame ! " 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 
Sae  loud,  loud  laughed  he ; 

The  neist  word    that    Sir    Patrick 
read, 
The  tear  blindit  his  e'e. 

"  O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed. 
And  tauld  the  king  o'  me. 

To  send  us  out  at  this  time  of  the 
year. 
To  sail  upon  the  sea  ? 

"  Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be 
it  sleet. 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 

'Tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame." 

Theyhoysed  their  sails  on  Monen- 
day  morn 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may ; 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 

Upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week 

In  Noroway,  but  twae, 
Wlien  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway 

Began  aloud  to  say : 


"  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  king's 
gowd 

And  a'  our  queene's  fee." 
"Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud! 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie ! 

"  For  I  hae  brought  as  much  white 
monie 
As  gane  my  men  and  me. 
And  I  hae    brought    a  half-fou  o' 
gude  red  gowd 
Out  owre  the  sea  wi'  me. 

"  Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merry 
men  a' ! 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn." 
"  Now,  ever  alake !  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm ! 

"  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen, 
Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm ; 

And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 
I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm." 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 
A  league,  but  barely  three, 

When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the 
wind  blew  loud. 
And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts 
lap. 
It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm ; 
And  the  waves  came  o'er  the  broken 
ship 
Till  a'  her  sides  were  "torn. 

"  O  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 
To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 

Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  topmast 
To  see  if  I  can  spy  land  ?  " 

"  O  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude, 
To  take  the  helm  in  hand. 

Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  topmast,  — 
But  I  fear  you'll  ne'er  spy  land." 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step,  but  barely  ane. 
When  a  boult  flew  out  of  our  goodly 
ship. 

And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 

"  Gae    fetch    a  web  o'  the    silken 
claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side 

And  let  na  the  sea  come  in." 


318 


PARNASSUS. 


They  fetched   a  web  o'  the  silken 
claith, 
Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  they  wapped  them  roun'  that 
glide  ship's  side, 
But  still  the  sea  came  in. 

O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude   Scots 
lords 

To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon ! 
But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  played, 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather-bed 
That  floated  on  the  f aem ; 

And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son 
That  never  mair  came  hame. 

The    ladyes    wrange     their    fingers 
white, 

The  maidens  tore  their  hair ; 
A'  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves,  — 

For  them  they'll  see  na  mair. 

0  lang,  lang,  may  the  ladyes  sit, 
Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand. 

Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  strand ! 

And  lang  lang  may  the  maidens  sit, 
Wi'  their  go wd  kaims  in  their  hair, 

A'  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves, 
For  them  they'll  see  na  mair. 

O  forty  miles  off  Aberdeen 

'Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep. 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 

Anonymous. 


THE  EARL  O'  QUARTERDECK. 

A  NEW  OLD  BALLAD. 

The  wind  it  blew,  and  the  ship  it 
flew; 
And  it  was  "  Hey  for  hame ! 
And  ho  for  hame!"    But  the  skip- 
per cried, 
"Hand  her  oot  o'er  the  saut  sea 
faem.". 

Then  up  and  spoke  the  kinghimsel' : 
"  Hand  on  for  Dumferline ! " 

Quo  'he  skipper,  *'  Ye' re  king  upo' 
the  land  — 
I'm  king  upo'  the  brine.'* 


And  he  took  the  helm  intil  his  hand, 
And  he  steered  the  ship  sae  free ; 

Wi'  the  wind  astarn,  he  crowded  sail, 
And  stood  right  out  to  sea. 

Quo  the  king,  "There's  treason  in 
this,  I  vow ; 
This  is  something  underhand ! 
'Bout    ship!"     Quo    the    skipper, 
*'  Yer  grace  forgets 
Ye  are  king  but  o'  the  land ! " 

And  still  he  held  to  the  open  sea ; 

And  the  east  wind  sank  behind ; 
And  the  west  had  a  bitter  word  to 
say, 

Wi'  a  white-sea  roarin'  wind. 

And  he  turned  her  head  into  the 
north. 
Said  the   king:    "Gar  fling  him 
o'er." 
Quo  the  fearless  skipper:    "It's  a' 
ye' re  worth! 
Ye'll  ne'er  see  Scotland  more." 

The  king  crept  down  the  cabin-stair, 
To  drink  the  gude  French  wine. 

And  up  she  canie,  his  daughter  fair, 
And  luikit  ower  the  brine. 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  drivin' 
hail. 
To  the  hail  but  and  the  weet ; 
Her  snood  it  brak,  and,  as  lang  's 
hersel'. 
Her  hair  drave  out  i'  the  sleet. 

She  turned  her  face  frae  the  drivin' 
win'  — 
"What's  that  ahead?  "  quo  she. 
The  skipper  he  threw  himsel'  frae 
the  win'. 
And  he  drove  the  helm  a-lee. 

"  Put  to  yer  hand,  my  lady  fair ! 

Put  to  yer  hand,"  quoth  he; 
"Gin  she  dinna  face  the  win'  the 
mair, 

It's  the  waur  for  you  and  me." 

For  the  skipper  kenned  that  strength 
is  strength. 
Whether  woman's  or  man's  at  last. 
To  the  tiller  the  lady  she  laid  her 
lian', 
And  the  ship  laid  her  cheek  to  the 
blast. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


319 


For  that  slender  body  was   full  o' 

soul, 

And  the  will  is  mair  than  shape ; 

As  the  skipper  saw  when  they  cleared 

the  berg, 

And  he  heard  her  quarter  scrape. 

Quo  the  skipper:  "Ye  are  a  lady 
fair, 
And  a  princess  grand  to  see ; 
But  ye  are  a  woman,  and  a  man  wad 
sail 
To  hell  in  yer  company." 

She  liftit  a  pale  and  a  queenly  face ; 
Her  een  flashed,  and    syne  they 
swam. 
"  And  what  for  no  to  heaven  ?  "  she 
says. 
And  she  turned  awa'  frae  him. 

But  she  took  na  her  han'  frae  the 
good  ship's  helm. 
Until  the  day  did  daw ; 
And  the  skipper  he  spak,  but  what 
he  said 
It  was  said  atween  them  twa. 

And  then  the  good  ship,  she  lay  to, 
With  the  land  far  on  the  lee ; 

And  up   came    the    king  upo'   the 
deck, 
Wi'  wan  face  and  bluidshot  ee. 

The  skipper  he  louted  to  the  king : 
"  Gae  wa',  gae  wa',"  said  the  king. 

Said  the  king,  like  a  prince,  "I  was 
a'  wrang, 
Put  on  this  ruby  ring." 

And  the  wind  blew  lowne,  and  the 
stars  cam  oot, 

And  the  ship  turned  to  the  shore; 
And,  afore  the  sun  was  up  again, 

They  saw  Scotland  ance  more. 

That  day  the  ship  hung  at  the  pier- 
heid, 
And  the  king  he  stept  on  the  land. 
"Skipper,  kneel  down,"  the  king  he 
said, 
"  Hoo  daur  ye  afore  me  stand  ?  " 

Tlje  skipper  he  louted  on  his  knee, 
The  king  his  blade  he  drew : 

Said  the  king,  "  How  daured  ye  con- 
tre  me  ? 
I'm  aboard  my  ain  ship  uoo. 


"  I  canna  mak  ye  a  king,"  said  he, 
"  For  the  Lord  alone  can  do  that; 

And  besides  ye  took  it  intil  yer  ain 
ban'. 
And  crooned  yersel'  sae  pat  I 

"  But  wi'  what  ye  will  I  redeem  my 
ring; 
For  ance  I  am  at  your  beck. 
And  first,  as  ye  loutit   Skipper  o' 
Doon, 
Else  up  Yerl  o'  Quarterdeck." 

The  skipper  he  rose  and  looked  at 
the  king 
In  his  een  for  all  his  croon ; 
Said  the  skipper,  "  Here  is  yer  grace's 
ring, 
And  yer  daughter  is  my  boon." 

The  reid  blude  sprang  into  the  king's 
■face, — 

A  wrathful  man  to  see : 
"  The  rascal  loon  abuses  our  grace; 

Gae  hang  him  upon  yon  tree." 

But  the  skipper  he  sprang  aboard  his 
ship. 
And  he  drew  his  biting  blade ; 
And  he  struck  the  chain  that  held 
her  fast. 
But  the  iron  was  ower  weel  made. 

And  the  king  he  blew  a  whistle  loud ; 

And    tramp,    tramp,    down    the 
pier, 
Cam'  twenty  riders  on  twenty  steeds, 

Clankin'  wi'  spur  and  spear. 

"  He  saved  your  life ! "  cried  the  lady 
fair; 
"  His  life  ye  daurna  spill ! " 
"  Will  ye  come  atween  me  and  my 
hate?  " 
Quo  the  lady,  "  And  that  I  will !  " 

And  on  cam  the  knights  wi'  spur 
and  spear, 
For  they  heard  the  iron  ring. 
"  Gin  ye  care  na  for  yer  father's 
grace. 
Mind  ye  that  I  am  the  king." 

"  I  kneel  to  my  father  for  his  grace, 

Right  lowly  on  my  knee ; 
But  I  stand  and  look  the  king  in  the 
face, 

For  the  skipper  is  king  o'  me." 


320 


PARNASSUS. 


She  turned  and  she  sprang  upo'  the 
de6k, 
And  the  cable  splashed  in  the  sea. 
The  good  ship  spread  her  wings  sae 
white, 
And  away  with  the  skipper  goes 
she. 

Now  was  not  this  a  king's  daughter, 

And  a  brave  lady  beside  ? 
And  a  woman  with  whom  a  man 
might  sail 
Into  the  heaven  wi'  pride  ? 

George  MacDonald. 


WKECK  OF  "THE  GRACE   OF 
SUNDERLAND." 

"He's  a  rare  man, 
Our  parson ;  half  a  head  above  us  all. ' ' 

"  That's  a  great  gift,  and  notable," 
said  I. 

"Ay,  Sir ;  and  when  he  was  a  younger 

man 
He  went  out  in  the  life-boat  very  oft, 
Before  '  The  Grace  of  Sunderland  ' 

was  wrecked. 
He's  never  been  his  own  man  since 

that  hour ; 
For  there  were  thirty  men  aboard  of 

her, 
Anigh  as  close  as  you  are  now  to  me. 
And  ne'er  a  one  was  saved. 

They're  lying  now. 
With  two  small  children,  in  a  row: 

the  church 
And  yard  are  full  of  seamen's  graves, 

and  few 
Have  any  names. 

She  bumped  upon  the  reef ; 
Our  parson,   my  young    son,    and 

several  more 
Were  lashed  together  with  a  two-inch 

rope. 
And  crept  along  to  her ;  their  mates 

ashore 
Ready  to  haul  them  in.    The  gale 

was  high. 
The  sea  was  all  a  boiling  seething 

froth, 
And    God    Almighty's    guns    were 

going  off. 
And  the  land  trembled. 


"  Wlien  she  took  the  ground, 
She  went  to  pieces  like  a  lock  of  hay 
Tossed  from    a    pitchfork.     Ere    it 

came  to  that, 
The    captain    reeled  on  deck  with 

two  small  things, 
One  in  each  arm  —  his  little  lad  and 

lass. 
Their  hair  was  long  and  blew  before 

his  face, 
Or  else  we  thought  he   had  been 

saved ;  he  fell. 
But  held  them  fast.     The  crew,  poor 

luckless  souls ! 
The  breakers  licked  them  ofE;  and 

some  were  crushed. 
Some  swallowed  in  the  yeast,  some 

flung  up  dead, 
The  dear  breath  beaten  out  of  them : 

not  one 
Jumped  from  the  wreck  upon  the 

reef  to  catch 
The  hands  that  strained  to  reach, 

but  tumbled  back 
With  eyes  wide  open.     But  the  cap- 
tain lay 
And  clung  —  the    only  man    alive. 

They  prayed  — 
'  For  God's  sake,  captain,  throw  the 

children  here!' 
'  Throw  them ! '   our  parson  cried ; 

and  then  she  struck : 
And    he  threw  one,   a  pretty  two 

years'  child, 
But    the  gale  dashed    him  on  the 

slippery  verge. 
And  down  he  went.     They  say  they 

heard  him  cry. 

"  Then  he  rose  up  and  took  the  other 

one. 
And  all  our  men  reached  out  their 

hungry  arms. 
And  cried  out,  '  Throw  her,  throw 

her!'  and  he  did. 
He  threw  her  right  against  the  par- 
son's breast, 
And  all  at  once  a  sea  broke  over  them. 
And  they  that  saw  it  from  the  shore 

have  said 
It  struck  the  wreck,  and  piecemeal 

scattered  it, 
Just  as  a  woman  might  the  lump  of 

salt 
That    'twixt    her   hands    into    the 

kneading-pan 
She  breaks  and   crumbles    on    her 

rising  bread. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


321 


**We  hauled  our  men  in:  two  of 

tliem  were  dead  — 
The    sea    had    beaten    them,   their 

heads  hung  down ; 
Our  parson's  arms  were  empty,  for 

the  wave 
Had  torn  away  the  pretty,   pretty 

lamb; 
"We  often  see  him  stand  beside  her 

grave : 
But  'twas  no  fault  of  his,  no  fault 

of  his." 

Jean  Ingelow. 


THE  DROWNED  LOVERS. 

Willie  stands  in  his  stable  door, 
And  clapping  at  his  steed ; 
And  looking  o'er  his  white  fingers, 
His  nose  began  to  bleed. 

"  Gie  corn  to  my  horse,  mother; 
And  meat  to  my  young  man : 
And  I'll  awa'  to  Meggie's  bower, 
I'll  win  ere  she  lie  down." 

*'  O  bide  this  night  wi'  me,  Willie, 

0  bide  this  night  wi'  me ; 

The  best  an'  cock  o'  a'  the  reest, 
At  your  supper  shall  be." 

"  A'  your  cocks,  and  a'  your  reests, 

1  value  not  a  prin ; 

For  I'll  awa'  to  Meggie's  bower, 
I'll  win  ere  she  lie  down." 

"  Stay  this  night  wi'  me,  Willie, 

0  stay  this  night  wi'  me ; 

The  best  an'  sheep  in  a'  the  flock 
At  your  supper  shall  be." 

"  A'  your  sheep,  and  a'  your  flocks, 

1  value  not  a  prin  ; 

For  I'll  awa'  to  Meggie's  bower, 
I'll  win  ere  she  lie  down." 

"  O  an'  ye  gang  to  Meggie's  bower, 
Sae  sair  against  my  will, 
The  deepest  pot  in  Clyde's  water. 
My  malison  ye's  feel." 

"  The  guid  steed  that  I  ride  upon 
Cost  me  thrice  thretty  pound ; 
And  I'll  put  trust  in  his  swift  feet, 
To  hae  me  safe  to  land." 
21 


As  he  rade  ower  yon  high,  high  hill, 
And  down  yon  dowie  den. 
The  noise  that  was  in  Clyde's  water 
Wou'd  fear'd  five  bunder  men. 

'' Ye're  roaring  loud,  Clyde  water, 
Your  waves  seem  ower  Strang ; 
Make  me  your  wreck  as  I  come  back, 
But  spare  me  as  I  gang." 

Then  he  is  on  to  Meggie's  bower, 

And  tirled  at  the  pin ; 

"  O  sleep  ye,  wake  ye,  Meggie,"  he 

said, 
"  Ye' 11  open,  lat  me  come  in." 

"  O  wha  is  this  at  my  bower  door, 
That  calls  me  by  my  name  ?  " 
"  It  is  your  first  love,  sweet  Willie, 
This  night  newly  come  hame." 

"I  hae  few  lovers  thereout,  there- 
out, 
As  few  hae  I  therein ; 
The  best  an'  love  that  ever  I  had, 
Was  here  just  late  yestreen." 

"The  warstan    stable    in    a'    your 

stables. 
For  my  puir  steed  to  stand ; 
The    warstan    bower   in    a'    your 

bowers, 
For  me  to  lie  therein : 
My  boots  are  fu'  o'  Clyde's  water, 
I'm  shivering  at  the  chin." 

"  My  barns  are  fu'  o'  corn,  Willie, 
My  stables  are  f u'  o'  hay ; 
My  bowers  are  f u'  o'  gentlemen ;  — 
They'll  nae  remove  till  day." 

"  O  fare-ye-well,  my  fause  Meggie, 
O  farewell,  and  adieu ; 
I've  gotten  my  mither's  malison. 
This  night  coming  to  you." 

As  he  rode    ower   yon  high,  high 

hill, 
And  down  yon  dowie  den ; 
The    rushing    that  was  in  Clyde's 

water 
Took  Willie's  cane  fra  him. 

He  lean'd  him  ower  his  saddle  bow, 

To  catch  his  cane  again ; 

The  rushing  that  was    in    Clyde's 

water 
Took  Willie's  hat  frae  Mm. 


322 


PARNASSUS. 


He  lean'd  him  ower  his  saddle  bow, 

To  catch  his  hat  thro'  force ; 

The   rushing    that  was  in  Clyde's 

water 
Took  Willie  frae  his  horse. 

His  brither  stood  upo'  the  hank, 
Says,  "Fye,  man,  will  ye  drown? 
Ye' 11  turn  ye   to  your  high  horse 

head, 
And  learn  how  to  sowm." 

"  How  can  I  turn  to  my  horse  head, 
And  learn  how  to  sowm  ? 
I've  gotten  my  mither's  malison, 
It's  here  that  I  maun  drown ! " 

The  very  hour  this  young  man  sank 
Into  the  pot  sae  deep, 
Up  it  waken' d  his  love,  Meggie, 
Out  o'  her  drowsy  sleep. 

"  Come  here,  come  here,  my  mither 

dear. 
And  read  this  dreary  dream ; 
I  dream'd  my  love  was  at  our  gates, 
And  nane  wad  let  him  in." 

"  Lye  still,  lye  still  now,  my  Meg^ 

gie, 
Lye  still  and  tak  your  rest ; 
Sin'  your  true  love  was  at  your  gates, 
It's  but  twa  quarters  past." 

Nimbly,  nimbly  raise  she  up, 
And  nimbly  pat  she  on ; 
And  the  higher  that  the  lady  cried. 
The  louder  blew  the  win'. 

The  first  an'  step  that  she  stepp'd  in, 
She  stepped  to  the  queet ; 
"  Ohon,  alas!"  said  that  lady, 
"  This  water's  wondrous  deep." 

The  next  an'  step  that  she  wade  in, 
She  wadit  to  the  knee ; 
Says  she,  "  I  cou'd  wade  farther  in, 
If  I  my  love  cou'd  see." 

The  next  an'  step  that  she  wade  in, 
She  wadit  to  the  chin ; 
The  deepest  pot  in  Clyde's  water. 
She  got  sweet  Willie  in. 

"  You've  had  a  cruel  mither,  Willie, 
And  I  have  had  anither; 
But  we  shall  sleep  in  Clyde's  water, 
Like  sister  an'  like  brither," 


WINSTANLET. 

Winstanley's    deed,    you   kindly 
folk. 
With  it  I  fill  my  lay, 
And  a  nobler  man  ne'er  walked  the 
world, 
Let  his  name  be  what  it  may. 

The  good  ship  "Snowdrop"  tarried 
long, 
Up  at  the  vane  looked  he ; 
"Belike,"  he  said,  for  the  wind  had 
dropped, 
"  She  lieth  becalmed  at  sea." 

The  lovely  ladies  flocke<l  within. 
And  still  would  each  one  say, 

"  Good  mercer,  be  the  ships  come 
up?" 
But  still  he  answered,  "  Nay." 

Then  stepped  two  mariners  down  the 
street, 

With  looks  of  grief  and  fear : 
"Now,  if  Winstanley  be  your  name, 

We  bring  you  evil  cheer ! 

"For    the    good    ship    'Snowdrop' 
struck,  —  she  struck 
On  the  rock, — the  Eddystone, 
And  down  she  went  with  threescore 
men. 
We  two  being  left  alone. 

"  Down  in  the  deep,  with  freight  and 
crew, 

Past  any  help  she  lies, 
And  never  a  bale  has  come  to  shore 

Of  all  thy  merchandise." 

"For   cloth    o'    gold    and    comely 
frieze," 

Winstanley  said,  and  sighed, 
"  For  velvet  coif,  or  costly  coat. 

They  fathoms  deep  may  bide. 

"O  thou  brave  skipper,  blithe  and 
kind, 

O  mariners,  bold  and  true. 
Sorry  at  heart,  right  sorry  am  I, 

A-thinking  of  yours  and  you. 

"  Many  long  days  Winstanley's  breast 
Shall  feel  a  weight  within. 

For    a  waft    of    wind    he  shall  be 
'feared, 
And  trading  count  but  sin. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


323 


**  To  him  no  more  it  shall  be  joy 
To  pace  the  cheerful  town, 

And  see  the  lovely  ladies  gay 
Step  on  in  velvet  gown." 

The  "Snowdrop"  sank  at  Lammas 
tide, 
All  under  the  yeasty  spray ; 
On  Christmas  Eve  the  brig   "Con- 
tent" 
Was  also  cast  away. 

He  little  thought  o'  New  Year' s  night, 

So  jolly  as  he  sat  then, 
While  drank  the  toast  and  praised 
the  roast 

The  round-faced  Aldermen,  — 

While  serving  lads  ran  to  and  fro, 

Pouring  the  ruby  wine, 
And  jellies  trembled  on  the  board, 

And  towering  pasties  fine,  — 

While  loud  huzzas  ran  up  the  roof 
Till  the  lamps  did  rock  o'erhead. 

And  holly-boughs  from  rafters  hung 
Dropped  down  their  berries  red,  — 

He  little  thought  on  Plymouth  Hoe, 

With  every  rising  tide. 
How  the  wave  washed  in  his  sailor 
lads, 

And  laid  them  side  by  side. 

There  stepped  a  stranger  to  the  board : 
"  Now,  stranger,  who  be  ye  ?  " 

He  looked  to  right,  he  looked  to  left. 
And  "  Rest  you  merry,"  quoth  he; 

-  For  you  did  not  see  the  brig  go  down, 
Or  ever  a  storm  had  blown ; 

For  you  did  not  see  the  white  wave 
rear 
At  the  rock,  —  the  Eddystone. 

"  She  drave  at  the  rock  with  stern- 
sails  set ; 
Crash  went  the  masts  in  twain ; 
She  staggered  back  with  her  mortal 
blow. 
Then  leaped  at  it  again. 

"  There  rose  a  great  cry,  bitter  and 
strong ; 
The  misty  moon  looked  out ! 
And  the  water  swarmed  with  sea- 
men's heads, 
And  the  wreck  was  strewed  about. 


"  I  saw  her  mainsail  lash  the  sea 
As  I  clung  to  the  rock  alone ; 

Then  she  heeled  over,  and  down  she 
went, 
And  sank  like  any  stone. 

"  She  was  a  fair  ship,  but  all's  one ! 

For  naught  could  bide  the  shock." 
"  I  will  take  horse,"  Winstanley  said, 

"  And  see  this  deadly  rock. 

"  For  never  again  shall  bark  o'  mine 

Sail  over  the  windy  sea, 
Unless,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  for 
this 

Be  found  a  remedy." 

Winstanley  rode  to  Plymouth  town 
All  in  the  sleet  and  the  snow ; 

And  he  looked  around  on  shore  and 
sound, 
As  he  stood  on  Plymouth  Hoe. 

Till  a  pillar  of  spray  rose  far  away. 
And  shot  up  its  stately  head. 

Reared,   and  fell   over,   and  reared 
again : 
"  Tis  the  rock !  the  rock ! "  he  said. 

Straight  to  the  Mayor  he  took  his  way : 
"  Good  Master  Mayor,"  quoth  he, 

"  I  am  a  mercer  of  London  town, 
And  owner  of  vessels  three,  — 

"  But  for  your  rock  of  dark  renown, 

I  had  five  to  track  the  main." 
"  You  are  one  of  many,"  the  old 

Mayor  said, 
"  That  on  the  rock  complain. 

"An  ill  rock,  mercer!  your  words 
ring  right, 

Well  with  my  thoughts  they  chime. 
For  my  two  sons  to  the  world  to  come 

It  sent  before  their  time." 

"Lend  me  a  lighter,  good  Master 
Mayor, 

And  a  score  of  shipwrights  free, 
For  I  think  to  raise  a  lantern  tower 

On  this  rock  o'  destmy." 

The  old  Mayor  laughed,  but  sighed 
also : 
"  Ah,  youth,"  quoth  he,  "  is  rash; 
Sooner,  young  man,  thou' It  j-oot  it 
out 
From  the  sea  that  doth  it  lash. 


324 


PARNASSUS. 


"  Who  sails  too  near  its  jagged  teeth, 

He  shall  have  evil  lot ; 
For  the  calmest  seas  that  tumble  there 

Froth  like  a  boiling  pot. 

"  And  the  heavier  seas  few  look  on 
nigh, 
But  straight  they  lay  him  dead ; 
A    seventy-gun-ship,     sir!  — they'll 
shoot 
Higher  than  her  masthead. 

"  Oh,  beacons  sighted  in  the  dark. 
They  are  right  welcome  things. 

And  pitchpots  flaming  on  the  shore 
Show  fair  as  an^el  wings. 

"Hast  gold  in  hand?  then  light  the 
land, 

It  'longs  to  thee  and  me ; 
But  let  alone  the  deadly  rock 

In  God  Almighty's  sea." 

Yet  said  he,  ''  Nay,  —  I  must  away, 
On  the  rock  to  set  my  feet ; 

My  debts  are  paid,  my  will  I  made, 
Or  ever  I  did  thee  greet. 

"  If  I  must  die,  then  let  me  die 
By  the  rock,  and  not  elswhere ; 

If  I  may  live,  O  let  me  live 
To  mount  my  lighthouse  stair." 

The  old  Mayor  looked  him  in  the  face. 
And  answered,  "  Have  thy  way; 

Thy  heart  is  stout,  as  if  round  about 
It  was  braced  with  an  iron  stay : 

"  Have  thy  will,  mercer!  choose  thy 

men. 
Put  off  from  the  storm-rid  shore ; 
Grod  with  thee  be,  or  I  shall  see 
Thy  face  and  theirs  no  more." 

Heavily  plunged  the  breaking  wave. 
And  foam  flew  up  the  lea, 

Morning  and  even  the  drifted  snow 
Fell  into  the  dark  gray  sea. 

Winstanley  chose  him  men  and  gear; 

He  said,  "  My  time  I  waste," 
For  the  seas  ran  seething  up  the  shore. 

And  the  wrack  drave  on  in  haste. 

But  twenty  days  he  waited  and  more, 

Pacing  the  strand  alone. 
Or  ever  he  sat  his  manly  foot 

On  the  rock,  —  the  Eddystone. 


Then  he  and  the  sea  began  their  strife, 
And  worked  with  power  and  might; 

Whatever  the  man  reared  up  by  day 
The  sea  broke  down  by  night. 

He  wrought  at  ebb  with  bar  and  beam, 
He  sailed  to  shore  at  flow ; 

And  at  his  side,  by  that  same  tide. 
Came  bar  and  beam  also. 

"  Give  in,  give  in,"  the  old  Mayor 
cried, 
"  Or  thou  wilt  rue  the  day." 
"Yonder  he    goes,"  the   townsfolk 
sighed. 
But  the  rock  will  have  its  way. 

"  For  all  his  looks  that  are  so  stout, 

And  his  speeches  brave  and  fair. 
He  may  wait  on  the  wind,  wait  on 
the  wave. 
But    he'll    build    no    lighthouse 
there," 

In  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 
The  rock  his  arts  did  flout, 
Through  the  long  days  and  the  short 
days. 
Till  all  that  year  ran  out. 

With  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

Another  year  came  in ; 
"  To  take  his  wage,"  the  workmen 
said, 

"  We  almost  count  a  sin." 

Now  March  was  gone,  came  April  in, 
And  a  sea-fog  settled  down. 

And  forth  sailed  he  on  a  glassy  sea. 
He  sailed  from  Plymouth  town. 

With  men  and  stores  he  put  to  sea, 

As  he  was  wont  to  do : 
They  showed  in  the  fog  like  ghosts 
full  faint,  — 

A  ghostly  craft  and  crew. 

And  the  sea-fog  lay  and  waxed  alway, 
For  a  long  eight  days  and  more ; 

"  God  help  our  men,"   quoth    the 
women  then ; 
"  For  they  bide  long  from  shore." 

They  paced  the  Hoe  in  doubt  and 
dread : 

"  Wliere  may  our  mariners  be  ?  " 
But  the  brooding  fog  lay  soft  as  down 

Over  the  quiet  sea. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


325 


A  Scottish  schooner  made  the  port, 
The  thirteenth  day  at  e'en; 

"  As  I  am  a  man,"  the  captain  cried, 
"  A  strange  sight  I  have  seen : 

"And  a  strange  sound  heard,  my 
masters  all, 
At  sea,  in  the  fog  and  the  rain, 
Like  shipwrights'  hammers  tapping 
low, 
Then  loud,  then  low  again. 

"And  a  stately  house  one  instant 
showed. 
Through  a  rift,  on  the  vessel's  lee ; 
What  manner  of  creatures  may  be 
those 
That  built  upon  the  sea?  " 

Then  sighed  the  folk,  "  The  Lord  be 
praised!" 
And   they  flocked    to    the    shore 
amain : 
All  over  the  Hoe  that  livelong  night. 
Many  stood  out  in  the  rain. 

It  ceased ;  and  the  red  sun  reared  his 
head. 

And  the  rolling  fog  did  flee ; 
And,  lo !  in  the  ofiing  faint  and  far 
Winstanley's  house  at  sea! 

In  fair  weather  with  mirth  and  cheer 
The  stately  tower  uprose ; 

In  foul  weather,  with  hunger  and 
cold. 
They  were  content  to  close ; 

Till  up  the  stair  Winstanley  went, 

To  fire  the  wick  afar ; 
And  Plymouth  in  the  silent  night 

Looked  out,  and  saw  her  star. 

Winstanley  set  his  foot  ashore : 
Said  he,  "  My  work  is  done ; 

I  hold  it  strong  to  last  as  long 
As  aught  beneath  the  sun. 

"  But  if  it  fail,  as  fail  it  may. 
Borne  down  with  ruin  and  rout. 

Another  than  I  shall  rear  it  high. 
And  brace  the  girders  stout. 

"  A  better  than  I  shall  rear  it  high, 

For  now  the  way  is  plain ; 
And  though  I  were  dead,"  Winstanley 
said, 
'  The  light  would  shine  again. 


"  Yet  were  I  fain  still  to  remain, 
Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep. 

And  tend  my  light  in  the  stormiest 
night 
That  ever  did  move  the  deep ; 

"And  if  it  stood,  why  then  'twere 
good. 
Amid  their  tremulous  stirs, 
To  count  each  stroke  when  the  mad 
waves  broke. 
For  cheers  of  mariners. 

"  But  if  it  fell,  then  this  were  weU, 
That  I  should  with  it  fall ; 

Since,  for  my  part,  I  have  built  my 
heart 
In  the  courses  of  its  wall. 

"Ay!  I  were  fain,  long  to  remain, 
Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep, 

And  tend  my  light  in  the  stormiest 
night 
That  ever  did  move  the  deep." 

With  that  Winstanley  went  his  way, 
And  left  the  r£)ck  renowned. 

And  summer  and  winter  his  pilot  star 
Hung  bright  o'er  Plymouth  Sound. 

But  it  fell  out,  fell  out  at  last. 
That  he  would  put  to  sea. 

To  scan  once  more  his  lighthouse 
tower 
On  the  rock  o'  destiny. 

And  the  winds  broke,  and  the  storm 
broke, 

And  wrecks  came  plunging  in ; 
None  in  the  town  fhat  night  lay  down 

Or  sleep  or  rest  to  win. 

The  great  mad  waves  were  rolling 
graves, 

And  each  flung  up  its  dead ; 
The  seething  flow  was  white  below, 

And  black  the  sky  o'erhead. 

And  when  the  dawn,  the  dull,  gray 
dawn,  — 
Broke  on  the  trembling  town, 
And  men  looked  south  to  the  harbor 
mouth. 
The  lighthouse  tower  was  down. 

Down  in  the  deep  where  he  doth 
sleep, 
Who  made  it  shine  afar, 


826 


PARNASSUS. 


And  then  in  the  night  that  drowned 
its  light, 
Set,  with  his  pilot  star. 

Many  fair   tombs    in    the  glorious 
glooms 
At  Westminster  they  show ; 
The  brave  and  the  great  lie  there  in 
state : 
Winstanley  lieth  low. 

Jean  Ingelow. 


FIDELITY. 

A   BARKING   sound    the   shepherd 

hears, 
A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  fox ; 
He  halts,  and  searches  with  his  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks : 
And  now  at  distance  can  discern 
A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern ; 
And  instantly  a  dog  is  seen 
Glancing  from  that  covert  green. 

The  dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed ; 
Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy; 
With  something,   as  the    shepherd 

thinks. 
Unusual  in  its  cry: 
Nor  is  there  any  one  in  sight 
All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height ; 
Nor  shout,  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear : 
What  is  the  creature  doing  here  ? 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess. 

That   keeps    till    June   December's 

snow ; 
A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 
A  silent  tarn  below ! 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 
Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling. 
Pathway,  or  cultivated  land. 
From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer ; 
The  crags  repeat  the  ravens'  croak 
In  symphony  austere ; 
Thither    the    rainbow  comes  —  the 

cloud  — 
And  mists  that  spread  the    flying 

shroud ; 
And  sunbeams:  and  the  sounding 

blast. 
That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past, 
But  that  enormous  barrier  binds  it 

fast. 


Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  a 

while 
The  shepherd  stood ;  then  makes  hii 

way 
Towards  the  dog,   o'er  rocks    and 

stones. 
As  quickly  as  he  may ; 
Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 
A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground ; 
The  appalled  discoverer  with  a  sigh 
Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 
The  man  had  fallen,  that  place  of 

fear! 
At  length  upon  the  shepherd's  mind 
It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear : 
He  instantly  recalled  the  name. 
And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came ; 
Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 
On  which  the  traveller  passed  this 

way. 

But  hear  a  wonder,  for  whose  sake 

This  lamentable  tale  I  tell ! 

A  lasting  monument  of  words 

This  wonder  merits  well. 

The  dog,  which  still  was  hovering 

nigh. 
Repeating  the  same  timid  cry, 
This  dog  had  been  through  three 

months'  space 
A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain  that  since  the 
day 

On  which  the  traveller  thus  had  died 

The  dog  had  watched  about  the  spot, 

Or  by  his  master's  side: 

How  nourished  here  through  such 
long  time 

He  knows,  who  gave  that  love  sub- 
lime. 

And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling, 
great 

Above  all  human  estimate. 

WORDSWOETH, 


HELVELLYN. 

I  CLIMBED  the  dark  brow  of  the 
mighty  Helvellyn, 
Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me 
gleamed  misty  and  wide ; 
All  was  still,  save  by  fits,  when  the 
eagle  Avas  yelling. 
And    starting    around    me     the 
echoes  replied. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


327 


On  the  riglit,  Striden-edge  round  the 

Red-tarn  was  bending, 
And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was 

defending, 
One    huge    nameless    rock    in    the 

front  was  ascending, 
V/hen    I    marked    the    sad    spot 

where  the  wanderer  had  died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  'mid  the 
brown  mountain  heather, 
Wliere  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lay 
stretched  in  decay, 

Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  aban- 
doned to  weather. 
Till  the  mountain-winds    wasted 
the  tenantless  clay. 

Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lone- 
ly extended. 

For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute 
favorite  attended, 

The    much-loved    remains    of   her 
master  defended. 
And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the 
raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his 
silence  was  slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  gar- 
ment,   how    oft    didst     thou 
start  ? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks 
didst  thou  number. 
Ere    he    faded    before    thee,    the 
friend  of  thy  heart  ? 
And,  oh,  was  it  meet,  that,  no  re- 
quiem read  o'er  him,  — 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to 

deplore  him. 
And    thou,     little    guardian,    alone 
stretched  before  him,  — 
Unhonored  the  Pilgrim  from  life 
should  depart  ? 

When  a  Prince  to  the  fate  of  the 
Peasant  has  yielded. 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round 
the  dim-lighted  hall; 

With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin 
is  shielded. 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  can- 
opied pall  : 

Through  the  courts,  at  deep  mid- 
night, the  torches  are  gleam- 
ing; 

In  the  proudly-arched  chapel  the 
banners  are  beaming ; 


Far    adown    the    long  aisle    sacred 
music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the  People 
should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of 
nature. 
To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the 
meek  mountain  lamb. 
When,     wildered,    he    drops    from 
some  cliff  huge  in  stature. 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side 
of  his  dam. 
And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this 

desert  lake  lying, 
Thy    obsequies    sung    by  the  gray 

plover  flying, 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  wit- 
ness thy  dying, 
In  the    arms    of   Helvellyn   and 
Catchedicam. 

Scott. 

GEORGE  NIDIYER. 

Men  have  done  brave  deeds, 
And  bards  have  sung  them  well : 

I  of  good  George  Nidiver 
Now  the  tale  will  tell. 

In  Californian  mountains 

A  hunter  bold  was  he : 
Keen  his  eye  and  sure  his  aim 

As  any  you  should  see. 

A  little  Indian  boy 

Followed  him  everywhere, 
Eager  to  share  the  hunter's  joy, 

The  hunter's  meal  to  share. 

And  when  the  bird  or  deer 

Fell  by  the  hunter's  skill, 
The  boy  was  always  near 

To  help  with  right  good-will. 

One  day  as  through  the  cleft 
Between  two  mountains  steep, 

Shut  in  both  right  and  left. 
Their  questing  way  they  keep, 

They  see  two  grizzly  bears, 
With  hunger  fierce  and  fell, 

Rush  at  them  unawares 
Right  down  the  narrow  dell. 

The  boy  turned  round  with  screams, 
And  ran  with  terror  wild : 

One  of  the  pair  of  savage  beasts 
Pursued  the  shrieking  child. 


328 


PARNASSUS. 


The  hunter  raised  his  gun,  — 
He  knew  one  charge  was  all,  — 

And  through  the  boy's  pursuing  foe 
He  sent  his  only  ball. 

The  other  on  George  Nidiver 
Came  on  with  dreadful  pace : 

The  hunter  stood  unarmed. 
And  met  him  face  to  face. 

I  say  unarmed  he  stood : 
Against  those  frightful  paws 

The  rifle  butt,  or  club  of  wood. 
Could  stand  no  more  than  straws. 

George  Nidiver  stood  still. 
And  looked  him  in  the  face : 

The  wild  beast  stopped  amazed. 
Then  came  with  slackening  pace. 

Still  firm  the  hunter  stood. 
Although  his  heart  beat  high : 

Again  the  creature  stopped, 
And  gazed  with  wondering  eye. 

The  hunter  met  his  gaze, 
Nor  yet  an  inch  gave  way ; 

The  bear  turned  slowly  round, 
And  slowly  moved  away. 

What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind 
It  would  be  hard  to  spell : 

What    thoughts    were    in    George 
Nidiver 
I  rather  guess  than  tell. 

But  sure  that  rifle's  aim. 
Swift  choice  of  generous  part, 

Showed  in  its  passing  gleam 
The  depths  of  a  brave  heart. 

E.  H. 

SVEND  VONYED. 
[From  the  old  Danish.] 

SvEND  VoNVED  bluds  his  sword  to 

his  side ; 
He  fain  will  battle  with  knights  of 

pride. 
*'  Wlien  may  I  look  for  thee  once 

more  here  ? 
Wlien  roast  the  heifer,  and  spice  the 

beer?" 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

**When  stones  shall  take,  of  them- 
selves, a  flight. 

And  ravens'  feathers  are  woxeii 
white, 


Then  expect  Svend  Yonved  home : 
In  all  my  days,  I  will  never  come." 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Yonved 

His  mother  took  that  in  evil  part: 
''I  hear,  young  gallant,   that  mad 

thou  art ; 
Wherever  thou  goest,  on  land  or  sea, 
Disgrace  and  shame  shall  attend  on 

thee." 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Yonved. 

He  kissed  her  thrice  with  his  lips  of 

fire: 
"Appease,  O  mother,  appease  thine 

ire! 
Ne'er  wish  me  any  mischance    to 

know. 
For  thou  canst  not  tell  how  far  I  may 

go." 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Yonved. 

"Then  I  will  bless  thee,  this  very 

day; 
Thou  never  shalt  perish  in  any  fray ; 
Success  shall  be  in  thy  courser  tall. 
Success  in  thyself  which  is  best  of 

all. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Yonved. 

"Success  in  thy  hand,  success  in  thy 

foot. 
In  struggle  with  man,  in  battle  with 

brute ; 
The  Holy  God  and  Saint  Drotten  dear 
Shall  guide  and  watch  thee  through 

thy  career." 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Yonved. 

Svend  Yonved  took    up    the  word 

again  — 
"I'll  range  the  mountain,  and  rove 

the  plain. 
Peasant  and  noble  I'll  wound  and 

slay; 
All,  all,  for  my  father's  wrong  shall 

pay." 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Yonved. 

His  helm  was  blinking  against  the 

sun. 
His  spurs  were  clinking  his  heels 

upon. 
His  horse  was  springing,  with  bridle 

ringing, 
Wliile  sat  the  warrior  wildly  singing, 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Yonved. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


329 


He  rode  and   lilted,   he    rode    and 

sang, 
Then  met  he  by  chance  Sir  Thule 

Vang; 
Sir  Thule'  Vang,    with    his    twelve 

sons  bold. 
All  cased  in  iron,  the  bright  and  cold. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

Svend  Vonved  took  his  sword  from 

his  side. 
He  fain  would  battle  with  knights  so 

tried; 
The  proud  Sir  Thule  he  first  ran 

through, 
And  then,  in  succession,  his  sons  he 

slew. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

Svend  Vonved  binds  his  sword  to 

his  side, 
It  lists  him  farther  to  ride,  to  ride ; 
He  rode  along  by  the  grene  shaw. 
The  Brute-carl  there  with  surprise 
he  saw. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

A  wild  swine  sat  on  his  shoulders 

broad, 
Upon  his  bosom  a  black  bear  snored ; 
And  about  his  fingers  with  hairo'er- 

hung. 
The    squirrel    sported    and    weasel 

clung. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

**Now,  Brute-carl,   yield  thy  booty 

to  me, 
Or  I  will  take  it  by  force  from  thee. 
Say,   wilt  thou  quickly  thy  beasts 

forego. 
Or  venture  with    me    to   bandy    a 

blow?" 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

''Much  rather,    much    rather,    I'll 

fight  with  thee. 
Than  thou  my  booty  should  get  from 

me: 
I  never  was  bidden  the  like  to  do. 
Since  good  King  Esmer  in  fight  I 

slew." 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

"  And  didst  thou  slay  King  Esmer 

fine? 
Why,  then  thou  slewest  dear  father 

mine; 


And  soon,  full  soon,  shalt  thou  pay 

for  him, 
With  the  flesh  hackt  off  from  thy 

every  limb!" 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

They  drew  a  circle  upon  the  sward ; 
They  both  were  dour,  as  the  rocks 

are  hard ; 
Forsooth,   I  tell  you,   their    hearts 

were  steeled,  — 
The  one  to  the  other  no  jot  would 

yield. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

They  fought  for  a  day,  — they  fought 

for  two,  — 
And  so  on  the  third  they  were  fain 

to  do; 
But  ere  the  fourth  day  reached  the 

night, 
The  Brute-carl  fell,   and  was  slain 

outright. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

Svend  Vonved  binds  his  sword  to 

his  side. 
Farther  and  farther  he  lists  to  ride ; 
He  rode  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  so  steep, 
There  saw  he  a  herd  as  he  drove  the 

sheep. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

"  Now  listen.  Herd,  with  the  fleecy 

care; 
Listen,  and  give  me  answers  fair. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

"What  is  rounder  than  a  wheel? 
Where  do  they  eat  the  holiest  meal  ? 
Where  does  the  sun  go  down  to  his 

seat? 
And  where  do  they  lay  the    dead 

man's  feet? 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

"What  fills  the  valleys  one  and  all ? 

What  is  clothed  best  in  the  mon- 
arch's hall? 

What  cries  more  loud  than  cranes 
can  cry  ? 

And  what  in  whiteness  the  swan  out- 
vie? 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

"  Who  on  his  back  his  beard  doth 

wear  ? 
Who  'neath  his  chin  his  nose  doth 

bear? 


330 


PARNASSUS. 


What's  more  black  than  the  blackest 

sloe? 
Aiid  what  is  swifter  than  a  roe  ? 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

"  Where  is  the  bridge  that  is  most 
broad  ? 

What    is,   by   man,    the    most    ab- 
horred ? 

Where  leads,  where  leads,  the  high- 
est road  up  ? 

And  say  where  the  hottest  of  drink 
they  sup?" 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

"  The  sun  is  rounder  than  a  wheel. 
They  eat  at  the  altar   the    holiest 

meal. 
The  sun  in  the  West  goes  down  to 

his  seat : 
And  they  lay  to  the  East  the  dead 

man's  feet. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

*'  Snow  fills  the  valleys,  one  and  all. 

Man  is  clothed  best  in  the  monarch's 
hall. 

Thunder  cries  louder  than   cranes 
can  cry. 

Angels  in  whiteness  the  swan  out- 
vie. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

"  His  beard  on  his  back  the  lapwing 

wears. 
His  nose  'neath  his  chin  the  elfin 

bears. 
More  black  is  sin  than  the  blackest 

sloe : 
And  thought  is  swifter  than  any  roe. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

**  Ice  is  of  bridges  the  bridge  most 

broad. 

3ad  is,  < 

abhorred. 
To  paradise  leads  the  highest  road 

up: 
And  in  hell  the  hottest  of  drink  they 

sup." 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

Svend  Vonved  binds  his  sword  to  his 

side, 
It  lists  him  farther  to  ride,  to  ride: 
He  found  upon  the  desolate  wold 
A  burly  knight,  of  aspect  bold. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 


"Now  tell  me,    Rider,    noble    an( 

good. 
Where  does  the  fish  stand  iip  in  the 

flood? 
Where  do  they  mingle  the  best,  best 

wine  ? 
And  where  with  his  knights  does 

Vidrick  dine  ? 
Lookout,  lookout,  Svend  Vonved." 

"  The  fish  in  the  East  stands  up  in 

the  flood. 
They  drink  in  the  North  the  wine 

so  good. 
In  Halland's  hall  does  Vidrick  dine, 
With  his   swains   around,    and  hit 

warriors  fine." 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

From  his  breast  Svend  Vonved  a 

gold  ring  drew, 
At  the  foot  of  the  knight  the  gold 
ring  he  threw ; 
"Go!    say  thou  wert    the    very 
last  man 
Who  gold  from  the  hand  of  Svend 
Vonved  wan." 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

Then  in  he  went  to  his  lonely  bow- 
er, 

There  drank  he  the  wine,  the  wine 
of  power; 

His    much-loved    harp    he     played 
upon 

Till  the  strings  were  broken  every 
one. 
Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved. 

Translated  from  the  old  Daninh  by 

George  Boitiiow, 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN. 

The  Wildgrave  winds  his  bugle-horn, 
To  horse,  to  horse !  halloo,  halloo! 

His  fiery  courser  snuffs  the  morn. 
And    thronging    serfs    their  lord 
pursue. 

The  eager  pack,  from  couples  freed. 
Dash  through  the  bush,  the  brier, 
the  brake ; 
While  answering  hound,  and  horn, 
aiid  steed. 
The    mountain    echoes    startling 
wake. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


331 


The  beams  of  God's  own  hallowed 
day 
Had  painted    yonder    spire    with 
gold, 
And,  calling  sinful  man  to  pray, 
Loud,  long,  and  deep  the  bell  had 
tolled  : 

But  still  the  Wildgrave  onward  rides ; 

Halloo,  halloo !  and,  hark  again ! 
When,  spurring  from  opposing  sides, 

Two  Stranger  Horsemen  join  the 
train. 

Who  was  each  Stranger,  left  and  right, 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

The    right-hand    steed   was     silver 
white. 
The  left,  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The    right-hand   Horseman,   young 
and  fair. 
His   smile  was  like  the  morn  of 
May; 
The  left,  from  eye  of  tawny  glare. 
Shot   midnight   lightning's    lurid 
ray. 

He  waved  his  huntsman's  cap  on 
high. 
Cried,  "  Welcome,  welcome,  noble 
lord! 
What  sport  can  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
To  match  the  princely  chase,  af- 
ford?" 

"Cease   thy  loud  bugle's  clanging 
knell," 
Cried  the  fair  youth,  with  silver 
voice ; 
"  And  for  devotion's  choral  swell, 
Exchange    the    rude    unhallowed 
noise. 

"  To-day  the  ill-omened  chase  for- 
bear. 
Yon  bell  yet  summons  to  the  fane ; 
To-day  the  Warning  Spirit  hear, 
To-morrow  thou  mayst  mourn  In 
vain."  — 

"Away,     and    sweep     the     glades 
along!" 
The  Sable  Hunter  hoarse  replies ; 
"  To  muttering  monks  leave  matin- 
song, 
And  bells,  and  books,  and  mys- 
teries." 


The  Wildgrave  spurred  his    ardent 
steed. 
And,  launching  forward  with   a 
bound, 
"Who,   for    thy    drowsy    priestlike 
rede. 
Would  leave  the  jovial  horn  and 
hound  ? 

"Hence,  if  our  manly  sport  offend! 
With   pious   fools  go  chant    and 
pray ! — 
Well   hast    thou    spoke,  my  dark- 
browed  friend ; 
Halloo,  halloo !  and,  hark  away !  '* 

The  Wildgrave  spurred  his  courser 
light. 
O'er  moss  and  moor,  o'er  holt  and 
hill; 
And  on  the  left,  and  on  the  right, 
Each  Stranger  Horseman  followed 
still. 

Up    springs,  from   yonder   tangled 
thorn, 
A  stag  more  white  than  mountain 
snow; 
And  louder  rung   the  Wildgrave' s 
horn, 
"Hark  forward,  forward!   holla, 
ho!" 

A  heedless  wretch  has  crossed  the 
way; 
He  gasps,  the  thundering   hoofs 
below ;  — 
But,  live  who  can,  or  die  who  may. 
Still,    "Forward,    forward!"    on 
they  go. 

See,  where  yon  simple  fences  meet, 
A  field  with   autumn's   blessings 
crowned ; 
See,  prostrate  at  the  Wildgrave' s  feet, 
A    husbandman   with    toil    em- 
browned : 

"O  mercy,  mercy,  noble  lord! 
Spare    the  poor's  pittance,"  was 
his  cry, 
"Earned  by  the  sweat  these  brows 
have  poured 
In  scorching  hour  of  fierce  July." 

Earnest    the    right-hand    Stranger 
pleads. 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey ; 


332 


PARNASSUS. 


The    impetuous    Earl    no    warning 
heeds, 
But  furious  holds  the  onward  way. 

"  Away,  thou  hound !  so  basely  born. 
Or  dread   the    scourge's   echoing 
blow!"  — 
Then  loudly  rung  his  bugle-horn, 
"Hark  forward,    forward!  holla, 
ho!" 

So  said,  so  done :  —  A  single  bound 
Clears  the  poor  laborer's  humble 
pale; 
Wild  follows  man,  and  horse,  and 
hound. 
Like  dark  December's  stormy  gale. 

And  man  and  horse,  and  hound  and 
horn. 
Destructive  sweep  the  field  along ; 
While,  joying  o'er  the  wasted  corn. 
Fell  Famine  marks  the  maddening 
throng. 

Again  uproused,  the  timorous  prey 
Scours  moss  and  moor,  and  holt 
and  hill ; 
Hard  run,  he  feels  his  strength  de- 
cay, 
And  trusts  for  life  his  simple  skill. 

Too  dangerous  solitude  appeared ; 

He  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  crowd : 
Amid  the  flock's  domestic  herd 

His  harmless  head  he  hopes  to 
shroud. 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and 
hill, 
His  track  the  steady  bloodhounds 
trace ; 
O'ermoss  and  moor,  unwearied  still, 
The    furious    Earl    pursues    the 
chase. 

Full  lowly  did  the  herdsman  fall ;  — 
*'  O  spare,  thou  noble  Baron,  spare 

These  herds,  a  widow's  little  all; 
These  flocks,  an  orphan's    fleecy 
care!"  — 

Earnest     the    right-hand    Stranger 
pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey; 
The  Earl  nor  prayer  nor  pity  heeds. 
But   furious    keeps    the    onward 
way. 


"Unmannered    dog!     To    stop  my 
sport. 
Vain  were    thy  cant  and  beggar 
whine. 
Though  human  spirits,  of  thy  sort. 
Were    tenants    of    these    carrion 
kine!"  — 

Again  he  winds  his  bugle-horn, 
"Hark    forward,    forward,  holla, 
ho!" 
And  through  the  herd,  in  ruthless 
scorn. 
He  cheers  his  furious  hounds  to  go. 

In  heaps  the  throttled  victims  fall ; 
Down  sinks  their  mangled  herds- 
man near ; 
The  murderous  cries  the  stag  appal, — 
Again    he   starts,  new-nerved  by 
fear. 

With  blood  besmeared,    and  white 
with  foam. 
While  big  the  tears  of  anguish  pour, 
He  seeks,  amid  the  forest's  gloom. 
The    humble    hermit's    hallowed 
bower. 

But  man  and  horse,  and  horn  and 
hound. 
Fast  rattling  on  his  traces  go; 
The  sacred  chapel  rung  around 
With,   "Hark   away!    and,  holla, 
ho!" 

All  mild,  amid  the  rout  profane, 
The     lioly    hermit     poured     his 
prayer : 
"Forbear  with  blood  God's  house  to 
stain ; 
Revere  his  altar,  and  forbear ! 

"The  meanest  brute  has  rights  to 
plead, 
Wliich,   wronged    by    cruelty,    or 
pride, 
Draw    vengeance    on    the    ruthless 
head : — 
Be  warned  at   length,   and    turn 
aside."  — 

Still    the    Fair    Horseman    anxious 
pleads ; 
The  Black,  wild  whooping,  points 
the  prey : 
Alas !  the  Earl  no  warning  heeds. 
But  frantic  keeps  the  forward  way. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


333 


"  Holy  or  not,  or  right  or  wrong, 
Thy  altar,  and  its  rites,  I  spurn ; 

Not  sainted  martyrs'  sacred  song, 
Not  God  himself,  shall  make  me 
turn!" 

He  spurs  his  horse,  he  winds    his 
horn, 
"Hark  forward,   forward!   holla, 
ho!" 
But    off,     on    whirlwind's    pinions 
borne, 
The  stag,  the  hut,  the  hermit,  go. 

And  horse  and  man,  and  horn  and 
hound. 
And  clamor  of  the  chase,  were  gone ; 
For  hoofs,   and    howls,   and    bugle 
sound, 
A  deadly  silence  reigned  alone. 

Wild    gazed    the     affrighted    Earl 
around ; 
He  strove  in  vain  to  wake  his  horn. 
In  vain  to  call :  for  not  a  sound 
Could   from  his   anxious   lips  be 
borne. 

He  listens  for  his  trusty  hounds ; 

No  distant  baying  reached  his  ears ; 
His  courser,  rooted  to  the  ground, 

The  quickening  spur  unmindful 
bears. 

Still  dark  and  darker  frown  the 
shades. 

Dark  as  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
And  not  a  sound  the  still  invades, 

Save  what  a  distant  torrent  gave. 

High  o'er  the  sinner's  humbled  head 
At    length    the     solemn     silence 
broke ; 

And  from  a  cloud  of  swarthy  red, 
The  awful  voice  of  thunder  spoke. 

*'  Oppressor  of  creation  fair! 

Apostate  Spirit's  hardened  tool! 
Scorner   of    God!    Scourge    of    the 
poor ! 

The  measure  of  thy  cup  is  full. 

"Be    chased    forever  through    the 

wood; 

Forever  roam  the  affrighted  wild ; 

And  let  thy  fate  instruct  the  proud, 

God's    meanest    creature    is    his 

child." 


*"Twas  hushed:  one  flash,  of  som- 
bre glare, 
With    yellow    tinged    the    forests 
brown ; 
Up  rose   the  Wildgrave's    bristling 
hair. 
And  horror  chilled  each  nerve  and 
bone. 

Cold  poured  the  sweat  in  freezing 
rill ; 
A  rising  wind  began  to  sing ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  still, 
Brought  storm  and  tempest  on  its 
wing. 

Earth  heard  the  call ;  —  her  entrails 
rend; 
From  yawning  rifts,  with  many  a 
yell, 
Mixed  with  sulphureous  flames,  as- 
cend 
The  misbegotten  dogs  of  hell. 

What  ghastly  Huntsman  next  arose. 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell : 

His    eye    like    midnight     lightning 
glows. 
His  steed  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  Wildgrave  flies  o'er  bush  and 
thorn, 
With  many  a  shriek   of  helpless 
woe; 
Behind  him  hound,  and  horse,  and 
horn. 
And,  "  Hark  away,  and  holla,  ho !" 

With  wild  Despair's  reverted  eye, 
Close,  close  behind,  he  marks  the 
throng, 

With  bloody  fangs,  and  eager  cry ; 
In  frantic  fear  he  scours  along.  — 

Still,   still  shall    last    the    dreadful 
chase. 
Till  time  itself  shall  have  an  end : 
By  day,  they  scour  earth's  caverned 
space, 
At  midnight's  witching  hour,  as- 
cend. 

This  is  the  horn,  and  hound,  and 
horse. 
That  oft  the  lated  peasant  hears ; 
Appalled  he  signs  the  frequent  cross, 
When  the  wild  din  invades   his 
ears. 


334 


PARNASSUS. 


The  wakeful  priest  oft  drops  a  tear 
For  human  pride,  for  human  woe, 

Wlien,  at  his  midnight  mass,  he  hears 

The  infernal  cry  "of,  "  Holla,  ho !  " 

Scott  :  trans,  from  Bukger. 


ALICE  BRAND. 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood, 
When  the  mavis   and  merle    are 
singing, 
When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the 
hounds  are  in  cry. 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 

"  O  Alice  Brand,  my  native  land 

Is  lost  for  love  of  you ; 
And  we    must  hold  by  wood  and 
wold, 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

"  O  Alice,  'twas  all  for  thy  locks  so 
bright, 
And  'twas  all  for  thine    eyes  so 
blue, 
That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless 
flight. 
Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 

"Now  must   I    teach    to   hew  the 
beech 

The  hand  that  held  the  glaive. 
For  leaves  to  spread  our  lowly  bed, 

And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

"And  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  fingers 
small, 
That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  must  shear  from  the  slaugh- 
tered deer, 
To  keep  the  cold  away."  — 

"  O  Richard !  if  my  brother  died, 
'Twas  but  a  fatal  chance; 

For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 
And  fortune  sped  the  lance. 

"  If  pall  and  vair  no  more  I  wear, 
Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 

As  warm,  we'll  say,  is  the  russet 
gJ'ay, 
As  gay  the  forest  green. 

"And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land. 
Still  Alice  has  her  own  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand." 


'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  m  good  green- 
wood, 
So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing ; 
On    the    beech's    pride,    and    oak's 
brown  side. 
Lord  Richard's  axe  is  ringing. 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin  King, 

Who  woned  within  the  hill,  — 
Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruined 
church, 

His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 
"Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech 
and  oak. 

Our  moonlight  circle's  screen? 
Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer, 

Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen  ? 
Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 


"  Up,  Urgan,  up !  to  yon  mortal  hie, 
For  thou  wert  christened  man ; 

For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly, 
For  muttered  word  or  ban." 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  green- 
wood, 
Though  the  birds  have  stilled  their 
singing; 
The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise, 
And  Richard  is  fagots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf, 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands, 
And,  as  he  crossed  and  blessed  him- 
self, 
"I  fear  not  sign,"  quoth  the  grisly 
elf, 
"  That    is     made    with    bloody 
hands." 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 
That  woman  void  of  fear,  — 

"  And  if  there's  blood  upon  his  hand, 
'Tis  but  the  blood  of  deer."  — 

"  Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of 
mood ! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand, 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood. 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand." 

Then    forward    stepped  she,  Alice 
Brand, 
And  made  the  holy  sign,  — 
"  And  if  there's  blood  on  Richard's 
hand, 
A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


385 


"  And  I  conjure  thee,  Demon  elf, 
By  Him  whom  Demons  fear, 

To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself, 
And  what  thine  errand  here?  "  — 

"It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 
When  the  Fairy  King  has  power. 
That  I  sunk  down  in  a  sinful  fray, 
And,    'twixt    life    and    death,    was 
snatched  away 
To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower. 

"  But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold, 
Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 

I  might  regain  my  mortal  mould, 
As  fair  a  form  as  thine." 

She  crossed  him  once  —  she  crossed 
him  twice  — 

That  lady  was  so  brave ; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue, 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  crossed  him   thrice,  that  lady 
bold; 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mould. 

Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand ! 

Merry  it  is  in  good  greenwood, 
When  the  mavis    and  merle  are 
singing. 
But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunferm- 
line gray. 
When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 
Scott. 


THE  LAKE  OF  THE  DISMAL 
SWAMP. 

"  They  made  her  a  grave  too  cold 
and  damp 
For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true ; 
And  she's  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the 

Dismal  Swamp, 
Where    all  night  long,  by  a  firefly 
lamp. 
She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 

And  her  firefly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 
And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear ; 
JiOng  and  loving  our  life  shall  be. 
And  I'll  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress- 
tree. 
When  the  footstep   of    death    is 
near!" 


Away   to    the   Dismal    Swamp   he 
speeds,  — 
His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through    tangled  juniper,   beds  of 

reeds. 
Through  many  a  fen  where  the  ser- 
pent feeds, 
And  man  never  trod  before ! 


And  when  on  the  earth  he  sunk  to 
sleep, 
If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew. 
He  lay  where  the  deadly  vine  doth 

weep 
Its    venomous    tear,    and     nightly 
steep 
The  flesh  with  blistering  dew ! 


And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirred 
the  brake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in 
his  ear. 
Till    he    starting    cried,    from    his 

dream  awake, 
"  O   when    shall    I   see   the   dusky- 
Lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  ?  " 

He   saw  the  Lake,   and  a   meteor 
bright 
Quick  over  its  surface  played,  — 
"Welcome,"  he  said  "  my  dear  one's 

light!" 
And  the  dim  shore  echoed  for  many 
a  night 
The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid ! 


Till  he  hollowed  a  boat  of  the  birch- 
en bark. 
Which  carried  him  off  from  shore ; 
Far  he  followed  the  meteor  spark, 
The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds 
were  dark. 
And  the  boat  returned  no  more. 


But  oft,  from  the  Indian  hunter's 
camp. 
This  lover  and  maid  so  true 
Are  seen,  at  the  hour  of  midnight 

damp. 
To    cross    the    Lake    by    a    firefly 
lamp, 
And  paddle  their  white  canoe ! 

MOORE. 


336 


PARNASSUS. 


CHILD  DYKING. 

Child  Dyking  has  ridden  him  up 
under  oe, 

(And  O  gin  I  were  young!) 
There  wedded  he  him  sae  fair  a  may. 

(r  the  greenwood  it  lists  me  to  ride. ) 

Thegither  they  lived  for  seven  lang 
year, 
(And  O,  &c.) 
And  they  seven  bairnes  hae  gotten 
in  fere. 
(I'  the  greenwood,  &c.) 

Sae  Death's  come  there  intill  that 

stead, 
And  that  winsome  lily  flower  is  dead. 

That  swain  he  has  ridden  him  up 

under  o^, 
And  syne  he  has  married   anither 

may. 

He's  married  a  may,  and  he's  fessen 

her  hame ; 
But  she  was  a  grim  and  a  laidly 

dame. 

When  into  the  castell  court  drave  she. 
The    seven   bairnes    stood    wi'    the 
tear  in  their  ee. 

The  bairnes  they  stood  wi'  dule  and 

doubt ;  — 
She  up  wi'  her  foot,  and  she  kicked 

them  out. 

Nor  ale  nor  mead  to  the  bairnes  she 

gave: 
"  But  hunger  and  hate  frae  me  ye's 

have." 

She  took  frae  them  the  bowster  blae, 
And  said,  "  Ye  sail  ligg  i'  the  bare 
strae!" 

She  took  frae  them  the  grofiE  wax- 
light: 

Says,  "Now  ye  sail  ligg  i'  the  mirk 
a'  night!" 

'Twas  lang  i'  the  night,  and    the 

bairnies  grat : 
Their  mither  she  under  the  mools 

heard  that ; 


That  heard  the  wife  under  the  eard 

that  lay : 
"Forsooth  maun  I  to  my  bairnies 

gael" 

That  wife  can  stand  up  at  our  Lord's 

knee, 
And  "  May  I  gang  and  my  bairnies 

see?" 

She  prigged  sae  sair,  and  she  prigged 

sae  lang. 
That  he  at  the  last  gae  her  leave  to 

gang. 

"And  thou  sail  come  back  when  the 

cock  does  craw ; 
For    thou    nae    langer    sail    bide 

awa." 

Wi'  her  banes  sae  stark  a  bowt  she 

gae; 
She's  riven  baith  wa'    and   marble 

gray. 

When  near  to  the  dwalling  she  can 

gang. 
The  dogs  they  wow'd  till  the  lift  it 

rang. 

When    she    came    till    the    castell 

yett, 
Her  eldest  dochter  stood  thereat. 

"Why  stand  ye  here,  dear  dochter 

mine  ? 
How  are   sma  brithers  and  sisters 

thine?"  — 

"  For  sooth  ye' re  a  woman  baith  fair 

and  fine ; 
But   ye    are    nae    dear    mither   of 

mine."  — 

"Och!   how  should  I  be    fine    or 

fair? 
My  cheek  is  pale,  and  the  ground's 

my  lair."  — 

"My  mither  was  white,  wi'  cheek 

sae  red, 
But    thou  art  wan,   and  liker  ane 

dead?" 

"Och,  how  should  I  be  white  and 

red; 
Sae  lang  as  I've  been    cauM    and 

dead?" 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


337 


When   she  came    till   the   chalmer 

in, 
Down  the  bairns'  cheeks  the  tears 

did  rin. 

She  biiskit  the  tane,  and  she  brushed 

it  there ; 
She  kem'd  and  plaited  the  tither's 

hair. 

Till  her  eldest    dochter   syne    said 

she, 
"  Ye  bid  Child  Dyring  come  here  to 
•   me." 

When  he  cam  till  the  chalmer  in, 
Wi'  angry  mood  she  said  to  him ; 

"  I  left  you  routh  o'  ale  and  bread ; 
My  bairnes  quail  for    hunger    and 
need. 

''I   left   ahind   me   braw    bowsters 

blae; 
My  bairnes  are  ligging  i'   the  bare 
strae. 

*'  I  left  ye  sae  mony  a  groff  wax- 
light; 

My  bairnes  ligg  i'  the  mirk  a' 
night. 

"  Gin  aft  I  come  back  to  visit  thee, 
Wae,    dowy,    and    weary  thy    luck 
shall  be." 

Up  spak  little  Kirstin  in  bed   that 

lay: 
"  To  thy  baimies  I'll  do  the  best  I 

may." 

Aye  when  they  heard  the  dog  nirr 

and  bell, 
Sae  gae  they  the  bairnies  bread  and 

ale. 

Aye    when    the    dog    did  mow,  in 

haste, 
They  cross' d  and  sain'd  themselves 

frae  the  ghaist. 

Aye  whan  the  little  dog  yowl'd,  with 

fear 
They  shook  at  the  thought  that  the 
dead  was  near. 

Scott. 
22 


CHILDREN  IN  THE  WOOD. 

Being  a  true  relation  of  the  inhuman 
murder  of  two  children  of  a  deceased  gen- 
tleman in  Norfolk,  England,  whom  he  left 
to  the  care  of  liis  brother ;  but  the  wicked 
uncle,  in  order  to  get  the  children's  estate, 
contrived  to  have  them  destroyed  by  two 
ruffians  whom  he  hired  for  that  purpose ; 
with  an  account  of  the  heavy  judgments 
of  God,  wliich  befell  him,  for  this  inhuman 
deed,  and  of  the  untimely  end  of  the  two 
bloody  ruffians.  To  which  is  added  a 
word  of  advice  to  executors,  &c. 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear, 
These  words  which  I  do  write ; 

A  doleful  story  you  shall  hear. 
In  time,  brought  forth  to  light. 

A  gentleman  of  good  account 

In  Norfolk  lived  of  late, 
Whose   fame    and    credit   did  sur- 
mount 

Most  men  of  his  estate. 

So  sick  he  was,  and  like  to  die, 
No  help  he  then  could  have ; 

His  wife  by  him  as  sick  did  lie, 
And  both  possess  one  grave. 

No  love  between  these  two  was  lost, 

Each  was  to  other  kind ; 
In    love    they  lived,  in    love    they 
died. 

And  left  two  babes  behind ;  — 

The  one  a  fine  and  pretty  boy. 
Not  passing  three  years  old ; 

The  other  a  girl  more  young  than  he, 
And  made  of  beauteous  mould. 

The  father  left  his  little  son. 

As  plainly  doth  appear, 
When  he  to  perfect  age  should  come, 

Three  hundreds  pounds  a  year. 

And  to  his  little  daughter  Jane 
Two  hundred  pounds  in  gold. 

For  to  be  paid  on  marriage  day. 
Which  might  not  be  controlled. 

But,  if  these  children  chanced  to  die 

Ere  they  to  age  did  come, 
The  uncle  should  possess  the  wealth ; 

For  so  the  will  did  run. 

"  Now,  brother,"  said  the  dying  man, 
"  Look  to  my  children  dear. 

Be  good  unto  my  boy  and  girl : 
No  friend  else  have  I  here. 


338 


PARNASSUS. 


"  To  God  and  you  I  do  commend 
My  children  night  and  day : 

A  little  while  be  sure  we  have 
Within  this  world  to  stay. 

**You  must  be  father,  mother  both, 

"And  uncle,  all  in  one; 
Grod  knows  what  will  become  of  them 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone." 

With  that  bespoke  the  mother  dear, 
"  O  brother  kind !  "  quoth  she, 

*'You  are  the  man  must  bring  my 
babes 
To  wealth  or  misery. 

"  If  you  do  keep  them  carefully, 
Then  God  will  you  reward : 

If  otherwise  you  seem  to  deal, 
God  will  your  deeds  regard." 

With  lips  as  cold  as  any  stone. 
She  kissed  her  children  small ; 

"God  bless  you  both,  my  children 
dear!" 
With  that  the  tears  did  fall. 

These    speeches    then   the    brother 
spoke 

To  the  sick  couple  there ; 
"  The  keeping  of  your  children  dear, 

Sweet  sister,  never  fear. 

"  God  never  prosper  me  nor  mine. 
Nor  aught  else  that  I  have. 

If  I  do  wrong  your  children  dear. 
When  you're  laid  in  the  grave." 

The  parents  being  dead  and  gone. 
The  children  home  he  takes. 

And  brings  them  home  unto  his  house, 
And  much  of  them  he  makes. 

He  had  not  kept  these  pretty  babes 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 

But  for  their  wealth  he  did  devise 
To  make  them  both  away. 

He  bargained  with  two  ruflSans  rude, 
Who  were  of  furious  mood, 

That  they  should  take  these  children 
young, 
And  slay  them  in  a  wood ; 

And  told  his  wife  and  all  he  had, 
He  did  those  children  send, 

To  be  brought  up  in  fair  London, 
With  one  that  was  his  friend. 


Away  then  went  these  pretty  babes, 

Rejoicing  at  tlie  tide. 
And  smiling  with  a  merry  mind. 

They  on  cock-horse  should  ride. 

They  prate  and  prattle  pleasantly 

As  they  rode  on  the  way. 
To  them  that  should  their  butchers  be, 

And  work  their  lives'  decay. 

So  that  the  pretty  speech  they  had 
Made  murderers'  hearts  relent ; 

And  they  that  took  the  deed  to  do, 
Full  sore  they  did  repent. 

Yet  one  of  them,  more  hard  of  heart, 
Did  vow  to  do  his  charge, 

Because  the  wretch  that  hired  him 
Had  paid  him  very  large. 

The  other  would  not  agree  thereto, 
So  here  they  fell  in  strife : 

With  one  another  they  did  fight 
About  the  children's  life. 

And  he  that  was  of  mildest  mood 

Did  slay  the  other  there. 
Within  an  unfrequented  wood. 

Where  babes  do  quake  for  fear. 

He  took  the  children  by  the  hand, 
When  tears  stood  in  their  eye. 

And  bid  them  come,  and  go  with 
him. 
And  see  they  did  not  cry. 

And  two  long  miles  he  led  them  thus, 
While  they  for  bread  complain ; 

"Stay  here,"  quoth  he:  "I'll  bring 
you  bread 
When  I  do  come  again." 

'These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in 
hand, 

Went  wandering  up  and  down ; 
But  never  more  they  saw  the  man 

Approaching  from  the  town. 

Their  pretty  lips  with  blackberries 
Were  all  besmeared  and  dyed ; 

But,  when  they  saw  the  darksome 
night. 
They  sat  them  down  and  cried. 

Thus  wandered  these  two  little  babes 
Till  death  did  end  their  grief : 

In  one  another's  arms  they  died, 
As  babes  wanting  relief. 


NAKRATIYE  POEMS  AND  BAIiLADS. 


339 


No  burial  these  pretty  babes 

Of  any  man  receives ; 
But  robin  red-breast  painfully 

Did  cover  them  with  leaves. 

And  now  the  heavy  wrath  of  God 

Upon  the  uncle  fell ; 
Yea,   fearful  fiends  did  haunt   his 
house, 

His  conscience  felt  a  hell. 

His  bams  were  fired,  his  goods  con- 
sumed, 

His  lands  were  barren  made ; 
His  cattle  died  within  the  field. 

And  nothing  with  him  staid. 

And  in  a  voyage  to  Portugal, 

Two  of  his  sons  did  die ; 
And    to     conclude,     himself    was 
brought 

Unto  much  misery. 

He  pawned  and  mortgaged  all  his 
lands 

Ere  seven  years  came  about ; 
And  now  at  length,  this  wicked  act 

By  this  means  did  come  out : 

The  fellow  that  did  take  in  hand 

These  children  for  to  kill 
Was  for  a  robbery  judged  to  die, 

As  was  God's  blessed  will. 

Who  did  confess  the  very  truth 

That  is  herein  expressed : 
The  uncle  died,  where  he,  for  debt, 

Did  in  the  prison  rest. 

A  WORD  OF  ADVICE  TO  EXECUTORS. 

All  ye  who  be  executors  made. 

And  overseers  eke, 
Of  children  that  be  fatherless. 

And  infants  mild  and  meek, 

Take  you  example  by  this  thing, 
And  yield  to  each  his  right ; 

Lest  God,  by  such  like  misery, 
Your  wicked  deeds  requite. 

Anon. 

THE   CHIMNEY-SWEEP. 

Sweep  ho !    Sweep  ho ! 
He  trudges  on  through  sleet  and  snow. 

Tired  and  hungry  both  is  he. 
And  he  whistles  vacantly. 


Sooty  black  his  rags  and  skin, 
But  the  child  is  fair  within. 

Ice  and  cold  are  better  far 
Than  his  master's  curses  are. 

Mother  of  this  little  one. 
Could' St  thou  see  thy  little  son! 

Sweep  ho !    Sweep  ho ! 
He  trudges  on  through  sleet  and  snow. 

At  the  great  man's  door  he  knocks. 
Which  the  servant  maid  unlocks. 

Now  let  in  with  laugh  and  jeer. 
In  his  eye  there  stands  a  tear. 

He  is  young,  but  soon  will  know 
How  to  bear  both  word  and  blow. 

Sweep  ho !    Sweep  ho ! 
In  the  chimney  sleet  and  snow. 

Gladly  should  his  task  be  done, 
Were't  the  last  beneath  the  sun. 

Faithfully  it  now  shall  be. 

But,  soon  spent,  down  droppeth  he. 

Gazes  round  as  in  a  dream. 

Very  strange,  but  true,  things  seem. 

Led  by  a  fantastic  power 
Which  sets  by  the  present  hour, 

Creeps  he  to  a  little  bed. 
Pillows  there  his  aching  head, 

And,  poor  thing !  he  does  not  know 
There  he  lay  long  years  ago ! 

E.  S.  H. 


THE  BOY  OF   EGREMOND. 

"  What  is  good  for  a  bootless  6ene?  " 
With  these  dark  words  begins  my 

tale; 
And  their  meaning  is,  "  Whence  can 

comfort  spring. 
When  prayer  is  of  no  avail  ?  " 

"  What  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene  ?  " 

The  falconer  to  the  lady  said ; 

And    she  made  answer,   "  Endless 

sorrow ! " 
For  she  knew  that  her  son  was  dead. 


340 


PAKNASSUS. 


She  knew  it  by  the  falconer's  words, 
And  from  the  look  of  the  falconer's 

eye; 
And  from  the  love  which  was  in  her 

soul 
For  her  youthful  Romilly. 

—  Young  Romilly  through  Barden 

Woods 
Is  ranging  high  and  low ; 
And  holds  a  greyhound  in  a  leash, 
To  let  slip  up  on  buck  or  doe. 

The  pair  have  reached  that  fearful 

chasm, 
How  tempting  to  bestride ! 
For  lordly  Wharf  is  there  pent  in 
With  rocks  on  either  side. 

This  striding-place    is  called  "  the 

Strid," 
A  name  which  it  took  of  yore : 
A  thousand  years  hath  it  borne  that 

name, 
And  shall,  a  thousand  more. 

And  hither  is  young  Romilly  come. 

And  what  may  now  forbid 

That  he,  perhaps  for  the  hundredth 

time. 
Shall  bound  across  "  the  Strid  "  ? 

He  sprang  in  glee,  — for  what  cared 

he 
That  the  river  was  strong,  and  the 

rocks  were  steep ! 

—  But  the  greyhound  in  the  leash 

hung  back, 
And  checked  him  in  his  leap. 

The  boy  is  in  the  arms  of  Wharf, 
And  strangled  by  a  merciless  force ; 
For  never  more  was  young  Romilly 

seen 
Till  he  rose  a  lifeless  corse. 

Now  there  is  stillness  in  the  vale. 
And  long  unspeaking  sorrow : 
Wharf  shall  be,  to  pitying  hearts, 
A  name  more  sad  than  Yarrow. 

If  for  a  lover  the  lady  wept, 

A  solace  she  might  borrow 

From  death,  and  from  the  passion 

of  death; 
Old  Wharf  might  heal  her  sorrow. 


She  weeps  not  for  the  wedding-day 
Which  was  to  be  to-morrow : 
Her  hope  was  a  farther-looking  hope. 
And  hers  is  a  mother's  sorrow. 

He  was  a  tree  that  stood  alone, 
And  proudly  did  its  branches  wave: 
And  the  root  of  this  delightful  tree 
Was  in  her  husband's  grave ! 

Long,  long  in  darkness  did  she  sit, 
And    her  first    words    were,    "Let 

there  be 
In  Bolton,  on  the  field  of  Wharf, 
A  stately  Priory!" 

The  stately  Priory  was  reared ; 
And  Wharf,  as  he  moved  along. 
To  matins  joined  a  mournful  voice, 
Nor  failed  at  evensong. 

And  the  lady  prayed  in  heaviness 
That  looked  not  for  relief ! 
But  slowly  did  her  succor  come, 
And  a  patience  to  her  grief. 

Oh !  there  is  never  sorrow  of  heart 
That  shall  lack  a  timely  end, 
If  but  to  God  we  turn  and  ask 
Of  Him  to  be  our  friend  i 

Wordsworth. 


THE     HIGH      TIDE     ON     THE 
COAST  OF  LINCOLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry 
tower. 
The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three ; 
"  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before ; 
Good    ringers,    pull    your    best," 
quoth  he. 
"Play  uppe,  play  uppe,   O  Boston 

bells ! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells, 
Play  uppe  'The  Brides  of  En- 
derby!'" 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde,  — 
The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows 
all; 
But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message    that  the    bells  let 
fall: 
And  there  was  nought  of  strange, 
beside 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND   BALLADS. 


341 


The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied, 
By  millions  crouched  on  the  old 
sea  wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 
My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne 
eyes; 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies ; 
And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She     moved     where     Lindis    wan- 

dereth, — 
My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling. 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"Cusha!  Cusha!"  all  along; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth. 
From    the    meads    where    melick 

groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song.  — 

"  Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling, 

"  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling ; 

Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 
Mellow,  mellow; 

Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yel- 
low; 

Come  uppe  VVhitefoot,  come  uppe 
Lightfoot, 

Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 
Hollow,  hollow; 

Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 

Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe 
Lightfoot, 

Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

If  it  be  long,  aye,  long  ago. 

When  I  begin  ne  to  think  ho  we  long, 
Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 
Swift  as  an  arrowe,   sharpe  and 
strong ; 
And  all  the  aire  it  seemeth  mee 
Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

AUe  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene, 

Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 
The  steeple  towered  from  out  the 
greene ; 

And  lo !  the  gi-eat  bell  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 


The  swannerds  where  their  sedges 
are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 
The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre. 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  downe   that  kyndly  message 

free, 
The  "Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 

Then  some  looked  uppe    into    the 

sky. 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 
To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie. 
And     where    the     lordly    steeple 

shows. 
They  sayde,  "  And  why  should  this 

thing  be, 
Wliat  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea? 
They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby ! 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 
Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down ; 
For    shippes    ashore    beyond     the 
scorpe. 
They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the 
towne ; 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  b'^  none,   and  pyrates 

flee. 
Why  ring  'The  Brides  of   Ender- 
by?'" 

I  looked  without,  and  lo !  my  sonne 
Came  riding    downe  with  might 
and  main. 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

"Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!" 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"The  olde  sea  wall   (he  cried)    is 
downe, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 
And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 

Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death : 
"God  save  you,  mother!"  straight 

he  saith ; 
"  Wliere  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth?" 

"Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds 
away 
With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her 
long; 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play. 
Afar  I  heard  her  niilking  song." 


342 


PARNASSUS. 


He  looked  across  the  grassy  sea, 
To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho  Enderby!" 
They  rang  ''The  Brides  of  Ender- 
by!" 

With  that   he  cried  and  beat   his 
breast ; 
For  lo!  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest. 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It    swept    with    thunderous    noises 

loud ; 
Shaped  like  a   curling  snow-white 

cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And     rearing     Lindis      backward 

pressed. 
Shook  all  her  trembling   bankes 

amaine ; 
Then  madly  at  the  eygre' s  breast 
Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls 

again. 
Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin 

and  rout,  — 
Then     beaten    foam     flew     round 

about,  — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave, 
The  heart    had    hardly  time    to 
beat. 
Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  our  feet : 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night, 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping 

by: 
I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 
Stream  from  the  church    tower, 

red  and  high,  — 
A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see ; 
And    awsome    bells   they    were    to 

mee. 
That  iu  the  dark  rang  "Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 
From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless 
rowed ; 
And  I,  — my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed : 
And  yet  he    moaned    beneath    his 

breath, 
"  O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death ! 
O  lost!  my  love,  Elizabeth." 


And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  ? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst  my  daugh- 
ter deare ! 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore. 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the 

grass ; 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to 

sea; 
A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas !    . 

To  manye  more  than   myne   and 

me: 
But  each  will  mourn  his  own,  (she 

saith). 
And    sweeter    woman    ne'er    drew 

breath 
Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis'  shore, 
"Cusha,  Cusha,  Cusha !"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
*' Cusha,  Cusha!"  all  along, 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth ; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  grow- 

eth, 
Wlien  the  water  winding  down, 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver: 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river. 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling. 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mel- 
low, 
Mellow,  mellow; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,   come  uppe 

Lightf  oot ; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow; 
Come  uppe  Lightfoot,  rise  and  fol- 
low; 
Lightf  oot,  Wliitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow. 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

Jean  Ingelow. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


843 


BRISTOWE  TRAGEDY;  OR,  THE 
DEATH  OF  SIR  CHARLES 
BAWDIN. 


The  feathered  songster  chanticleer 
Had  wound  his  bugle  horn, 

And  told  the  early  villager 
The  coming  of  the  morn. 


n. 


King  Edward  sawe  the  ruddy  streaks 

Of  light  eclipse  the  grey; 
And    heard    the    raven's    croaking 
throat 

Proclaim  the  fated  day. 


"Thou'rt  right,"   quoth  he,   "for, 

by  the  God 
That  sits  enthroned  on  high ! 
Charles    Bawdin,    and    his    fellows 

twain, 
To-day  shall  surely  die." 

IV. 

Then  with  a  jug  of  nappy  ale 
His  knights  did  on  him  wait. 

*'  Go  tell  the  traitor,  that  to-day 
He  leaves  this  mortal  state." 


Sir  Canterlone  then  bended  low, 
With  heart  brimful  of  woe ; 

He  journeyed  to  the  castle-gate, 
And  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 

VI. 

But  when    he    came,   his    children 
twain, 

And  eke  his  loving  wife. 
With  briny  tears  did  wet  the  floor. 

For  good  Sir  Charles's  life. 


*' O  good  Sir  Charles ! "  said  Canter- 
lone, 
"Bad  tidings  do  I  bring." 
"  Speak  boldly,  man,"  said  brave  Sir 
Charles, 
"  What  says  thy  traitor  king  ?  " 


VIII. 


"  I  grieve  to  tell,  before  yon  sun 
Does  from  the  welkin  fly. 

He  hath  upon  his  honor  sworn. 
That  thou  shalt  surely  die." 


"We  all  must  die,"  quoth  brave  Sir 
Charles, 

" Of  that  I'm  not  aff eared; 
Wliat  boots  to  live  a  little  space  ? 

Thank  Jesu,  I'm  prepared ; 


"But  tell  thy  king,  for  mine  he's 
not, 

I'd  sooner  die  to-day 
Than  live  his  slave,  as  many  are, 

Though  I  should  live  for  aye." 

XI. 

Then  Canterlone  he  did  go  out, 
To  tell  the  mayor  straight 

To  get  all  things  in  readiness 
For  good  Sir^Charles's  fate. 


Then  Master  Canning  sought   the 
king, 
And  fell  down  on  his  knee : 
"I'm  come,"  quoth  he,  "unto  your 
grace 
To  move  your  clemency." 

xni. 

Then  quoth  the  king,  "Your  tale 
speak  out. 

You  have  been  much  our  friend ; 
Whatever  your  request  may  be, 

We  will  to  it  attend." 

XIV. 

"  My  noble  liege !  all  my  request 

Is  for  a  noble  knight. 
Who,  though  mayhap  he  has  done 
wrong. 

He  thought  it  still  was  right : 


"He   has    a    spouse    and    children 
twain. 

All  ruined  are  for  aye, 
If  that  you  are  resolved  to  let 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to-day." 


344 


PARNASSUS. 


XTI. 

"  Speak  not  of  such  a  traitor  vile," 

The  king  in  fury  said ; 
"Before     the     evening    star    doth 
shine, 

Bawdiu  shall  loose  his  head ; 


''Justice  does  loudly  for  him  call, 
And  he  shall  have  his  meed ; 

Speak,  Master  Canning !  What  thing 
else 
At  present  do  you  need?  " 

XVIII. 

''My  noble  liege,"    good    Canning 
said, 

"  Leave  justice  to  our  God, 
And  lay  the  iron  rule  aside ; 

Be  thine  the  olive  rod. 


"Was  God  to  search  our  hearts  and 
reins, 

The  best  were  sinners  great ; 
Christ's  vicar  only  knows  no  sin, 

In  all  this  mortal  state. 


"Let  mercy  rule  thine  infant  reign, 
'Twill  fast  thy  crown  full  sure ; 

From  race  to  race  thy  family 
All  sovereigns  shall  endure : 


"But  if   with  blood  and  slaughter 
thou 
Begin  thy  infant  reign, 
Thy    crown    upon    thy   children's 
brows 
Will  never  long  remain." 

XXII. 

"Canning,  away!  this  traitor  vile 
Has  scorned  my  power  and  me ; 

How  canst  thou  then  for  such  a  man 
Intreat  my  clemency  ?  " 

XXIII. 

"  My  noble  liege !  the  truly  brave 
Will  val'rous  actions  prize, 

Kespect  a  brave  and  noble  mind, 
Although  in  enemies." 


XXIV. 

"  Canning,  away !    By  God  in  Heav^ 
en, 

That  did  my  being  give, 
I  will  not  taste  a  bit  of  bread 

Whilst  this  Sir  Charles  doth  live. 


"  By  Mary  and  all  Saints  in  Heaven, 
This  sun  shall  be  his  last;" 

Then  Canning  dropped  a  briny  tear. 
And  from  the  presence  passed. 

XXVI. 

With  heart  brimful  of  gnawing  grief. 

He  to  Sir  Charles  did  go, 
And  sat  him  down  upon  a  stool, 

And  teares  began  to  flow. 

XXVII. 

"We  all  must  die,"  quoth  brave  Sir 
Charles ; 

"  What  boots  it  how  or  when ; 
Death  is  the  sure,  the  certain  fate 

Of  all  we  mortal  men. 


"Say,  why,  my  friend,  thy  honest 
soul 

Kuns  over  at  thine  eye ; 
Is  it  for  my  most  welcome  doom 

That  thou  dost  child-like  cry  ?  " 


Quoth  godly  Canning,  "  I  do  weep. 
That  thou  so  soon  must  die, 

And  leave   thy  sons   and    helpless 
wife; 
'Tis  this  that  wets  mine  eye." 

XXX. 

"  Then  dry  the  tears  that  out  thine 
eye 

From  godly  fountains  spring ; 
Death  I  despise,  and  all  the  power 

Of  Edward,  traitor  king. 


"When  through  the  tyrant's  wel- 
come means 

I  shall  resign  my  life, 
The  God  I  serve  will  soon  provide 

For  both  my  sons  and  wife. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


345 


XXXII. 

"  Before  I  saw  the  lightsome  sun, 

This  was  appointed  me ; 
Shall  mortal  man  repine  or  grudge 

What  God  ordains  to  be  ? 

xxxni. 

*'  How  oft  in  battle  have  I  stood, 
When  thousands  died  around ; 

When  smoking  streams  of  crimson 
blood 
Imbrued  the  fattened  ground : 


XXXIV. 

"  How  did  I  know  that  every  dart 

That  cut  the  airy  way, 
Might  not  find  passage  to  my  heart. 

And  close  mine  eyes  for  aye  ? 


"And  shall  I  now,  for  fear  of  death. 
Look  wan  and  be  dismayed  ? 

No !  from  my  heart  fly  childish  fear. 
Be  all  the  man  displayed. 

XXXVl. 

"  Ah !  Godlike  Henry !  God  forfend, 
And  guard  thee  and  thy  son, 

If  'tis  His  will;  but  if  'tis  not. 
Why  then  His  will  be  done. 


"  My  honest  friend,  my  fault  has  been 
To  serve  God  and  my  prince ; 

And  that  I  no  time-server  am. 
My  death  will  soon  convince. 

XXXVIII. 

*'In  London  city  was  I  bom. 
Of  parents  of  great  note ; 

My  father  did  a  noble  arms 
Emblazon  on  his  coat  : 

XXXIX. 

"  I  make  no  doubt  but  he  is  gone 
Where  soon  I  hope  to  go ; 

Where  we  forever  shall  be  blest. 
From  out  the  reach  of  woe : 

XL. 

"He  taught  me  justice  and  the  laws 
With  pity  to  unite ; 


And  eke  he  taught  me  how  to  know 
The  wrong  cause  from  the  right : 


XLI. 

"  He  taught  me  with  a  prudent  hand, 

To  feed  the  hungry  poor, 
Nor  let  my  servant  drive  away 

The  hungry  from  my  door  : 

XLII. 

"  And  none  can  say  but  all  my  life 

I  have  his  wordys  kept ; 
And  summed    the    actions    of   the 
day 

Each  night  before  I  slept. 

XLIII. 

"  I  have  a  spouse,  go  ask  of  her, 

If  I  defiled  her  bed? 
I  have  a  king,  and  none  can  lay 

Black  treason  on  my  head. 

XLIV. 

"  In  Lent,  and  on  the  holy  eve, 

From  flesh  I  did  refrain ; 
Why  should  I  then  appear  dismayed 

To  leave  this  world  of  pain  ? 

XLV. 

"  No !  hapless  Henry !  I  rejoice, 

I  shall  not  see  thy  death ; 
Most  willingly  in  thy  just  cause 

Do  I  resign  my  breath. 

XL  VI. 

"  Oh,  fickle  people !  ruined  land ! 

Thou  wilt  ken  peace  nae  moe ; 
While  Richard's  sons  exalt   them- 
selves. 

Thy  brooks  with  blood  will  flow. 

XLVII. 

"  Say,  were  ye  tired  of  godly  peace, 

And  godly  Henry's  reign. 
That  you  did  chop  your  easy  days 

For  those  of  blood  and  pain  ? 

XLVIII, 

"  What  though  I  on  a  sled  be  drawn, 

And  mangled  by  a  hind  ? 
I  do  defy  the  traitor's  power, 

He  can  not  harm  my  mind ; 


346 


PARNASSUS. 


XLIX. 


"What  though,  uphoisted  on  a  pole, 

My  limbs  shall  rot  in  air, 
And  no  rich  monument  of  brass 

Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear ; 


"Yet  in  the  holy  book  above, 
Which  time  can't  eat  away. 

There  with  the  servants  of  the  Lord 
My  name  shall  live  for  aye. 

LI. 

"Then    welcome    death!    for    life 
eterne 
I  leave  this  mortal  life : 
Farewell,  vain  world,  and  all  that's 
dear. 
My  sons  and  loving  wife  I 


"Now   death    as    welcome    to   me 
comes, 

As  e'er  the  month  of  May; 
Nor  would  I  even  wish  to  live, 

With  my  dear  wife  to  stay.'* 

LIU. 

Quoth    Canning,     "'Tis    a   goodly 
thing 
To  be  prepared  to  die ; 
And  from  this  world  of  pain  and 
grief 
To  God  in  Heaven  to  fly." 

LIV. 

And  now  the  bell  began  to  toll. 

And  clarions  to  sound ; 
Sir  Charles  he  heard  the  horses'  feet 

A  prancing  on  the  ground : 

LV. 

And  just  before  the  officers 

His  loving  wife  came  in, 
Weeping  unfeigned  tears  of  woe, 

With  loud  and  dismal  din. 

liVI. 

"  Sweet  Florence !   now  I  pray,  for- 
bear, — 

In  quiet  let  me  die; 
Pray  God  that  every  Christian  soul 

May  look  on  death  as  I. 


Lvn. 

"Sweet  Florence!  why  these  briny 
tears  ? 

They  wash  my  soul  away, 
And  almost  make  me  wish  for  life. 

With  thee,  sweet  dame,  to  stay. 

LVIII. 

"  'Tis  but  a  journey  I  shall  go 

Unto  the  land  of  bliss ; 
Now,  as  a  proof  of  husband's  love. 

Receive  this  holy  kiss." 

LIX. 

Then  Florence,  faltering  in  her  say. 
Trembling  these  wordys  spoke, 

"  Ah,  cruel  Edward !  bloody  king! 
My  heart  is  well  nigh  broke  ; 

LX. 

"Ah,  sweet  Sir  Charles!  why  wilt 
thou  go. 

Without  thy  loving  wife ! 
The  cruel  axe  that  cuts  thy  neck. 

It  eke  shall  end  my  life." 


And  now  the  officers  came  in 
To  bring  Sir  Charles  away, 

Who  turned  to  his  loving  wife, 
And  thus  to  her  did  say : 

Lxn. 

"  I  go  to  life,  and  not  to  death ; 

Trust  thou  in  God  above, 
And  teach  thy  sons  to  fear  the  Lord, 

And  in  their  hearts  Him  love : 

LXIII. 

"  Teach  them  to  run  the  noble  race 

That  I  their  father  run : 
Florence !  should  death  thee  take,  -- 
adieu ! 

Ye  officers,  lead  on." 

LXIV. 

Then  Florence  raved  as  any  mad, 

And  did  her  tresses  tear ; 
"Oh!  stay,  my  husband!  lord!  and 
life!"  — 

Sir  Charles  then  dropped  a  tear. 


NAERATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


34T 


LXV. 

Till  tired  out  with  raving  loud, 

She  fellen  on  the  floor ; 
Sir  Charles  exerted  all  his  might, 

And  marched  from  out  the  door. 

LXVI. 

Upon  a  sled  he  mounted  then, 
With  looks  full  brave  and  sweet; 

Looks  that  en  shone  ne  more  concern 
Than  any  in  the  street. 


Before  him  went  the  council-men, 
In.scarlet  robes  and  gold, 

And  tassels  spangling  in  the  sun, 
Much  glorious  to  behold : 


The  friars  of  Saint  Augustine  next 

Appeared  to  the  sight, 
All  clad  in  homely  russet  weeds. 

Of  godly  monkish  plight : 

LXIX. 

In  different  parts  a  godly  psalm 
Most  sweetly  did  they  chant ; 

Behind   their   backs    six   minstrels 
came, 
Who  tuned  the  strung  bataunt. 

LXX. 

Then  five  and  twenty  archers  came ; 

Each  one  the  bow  did  bend, 
From  rescue  of  King  Henry's  friends 

Sir  Charles  for  to  defend. 

liXXI. 

Bold  as  a  lion  came  Sir  Charles, 
Drawn  on  a  cloth-laid  sled. 

By  two  black  steeds  in    trappings 
white. 
With  plumes  upon  their  head : 


Behind  him  five  and  twenty  more 
Of  archers  strong  and  stout, 

With  bended  bow  each  one  in  hand. 
Marched  in  goodly  rout : 

LXXIII. 

Saint  .James's  Friars  marchfed  next, 
Each  one  his  part  did  chant ; 


Behind    their    backs    six   minstrels 
came, 
Who  tuned  the  strung  bataunt : 

LXXIV. 

Then  came  the  mayor  and  aldermen. 
In  cloth  of  scarlet  decked  ; 

And  their  attending-men  each  one. 
Like  Eastern  princes  trickt. 

LXXV. 

And  after  them  a  multitude 

Of  citizens  did  throng : 
The  windows  were  all  full  of  heads, 

As  he  did  pass  along. 

LXXVI. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  high  cross. 
Sir  Charles  did  turn  and  say, 

''  O  Thou,  that  savest  man  from  sin. 
Wash  my  soul  clean  this  day !" 

Lxxvn. 

At  the  great  minster  window  sat 

The  king  in  mickle  state, 
To  see  Charles  Bawdin  go  along 

To  his  most  welcome  fate. 

LXXVIII. 

Soon  as  the  sled  drew  nigh  enough, 
That  Edward  he  might  hear. 

The  brave  Sir  Charles  he  did  stand 
up, 
And  thus  his  words  declare : 


"Thou  seest    me,  Edward!  traitor 
vile! 

Exposed  to  infamy ; 
But  be  assured,  disloyal  man ! 

I'm  greater  now  than  thee. 

LXXX. 

"  By  foul  proceedings,  murder,  blood, 
Thou  wearest  now  a  crown ; 

And  hast  appointed  me  to  die. 
By  power  not  thine  own. 

LXXXI. 

"  Thou  thinkest  I  shall  die  to-day; 

I  have  been  dead  till  now, 
And  soon  shall  live  to  wear  a  crown 

For  aye  upon  my  brow ; 


348 


PAENASSUS. 


LXXXII. 

"Whilst   thou,  perhaps,  for    some 
few  years, 

Shall  rule  this  fickle  land, 
To  let  them  know  how  wide  the  rule 

'Twixt  king  and  tyrant  hand: 

Lxxxin. 

"Thy  power  unjust,    thou   traitor 
slave ! 

Shall  fall  on  thy  own  head  "  — 
From  out  of  hearing  of  the  king 

Departed  then  the  sled. 

LXXXIV. 

King  Edward's  soule  rushed  to  his 
face. 

He  turned  his  head  away. 
And  to  his  brother  Gloucester 

He  thus  did  speak  and  say : 

LXXXV. 

"  To  him  that  so-much-dreaded  death 

No  ghastly  terrors  bring ; 
Behold  the  man !  he  spake  the  truth, 

He's  greater  than  a  king!" 

LXXXVI. 

"  So  let  him  die ! "  Duke  Richard  said ; 

"  And  may  each  one  our  foes 
Bend  down  their  necks  to  bloody  axe. 

And  feed  the  carrion  crows." 

LXXXVII. 

And  now  the  horses  gently  drew 
Sir  Charles  up  the  high  hill ; 

The  axe  did  glister  in  the  sun, 
His  precious  blood  to  spill. 

LXXXVIII. 

Sir  Charles  did  up  the  scaffold  go. 

As  up  a  gilded  car 
Of  victory,  by  val'rous  chiefs 

Gained  in  the  bloody  war  : 

LXXXIX. 

And  to  the  people  he  did  say, 

"  Behold  you  see  me  die, 
For  serving  loyally  my  king. 

My  king  most  rightfully. 

XC. 

"  As  long  as  Edward  rules  this  land. 
No  quiet  will  you  know ; 


Your   sons  and  husbands  shall  be 
slain. 
And  brooks  with  blood  shall  flow. 

XCI. 

"You  leave  your  good  and  lawful 

When  in  adversity ; 
Like  me,  unto  the  true  cause  stick, 
And  for  the  true  cause  die." 

XCII. 

Then  he,  with  priests,  upon  his  knees, 
A  prayer  to  God  did  make. 

Beseeching  Him  unto  Himself 
His  parting  soul  to  take. 

XCIII. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  he  laid  his  head 
Most  seemly  on  the  block ; 

Which  from  his  body  fair  at  once 
The  able  headsman  stroke ; 

XCIV. 

And  out  the  blood  began  to  flow, 
And  round  the  scaffold  twine; 

And  tears,  enough  to  wash't  away. 
Did  flow  from  each  man's  eyne. 

xcv. 

The  bloody  axe  his  body  fair 

Into  four  partes  cut ; 
And  every  part  and  eke  his  head, 

Upon  a  pole  was  put. 

xcvi. 

One  part  did  rot  on  Kynwulft-hill, 
One  on  the  minster  tower. 

And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 
The  crowen  did  devour ; 

XCVII. 

The  other  on  St.  Powle's  good  gate, 

A  dreary  spectacle ; 
His  head  was  placed  on  the  high  cross, 

In  high-street  most  nobel. 

XCVIII. 

Thus  was  the  end  of  Bawdin's  fate: 
God  prosper  long  our  king, 

Andgrant  he  may, with  Bawdin's  soul, 
In  heaven  God's  mercy  sing! 

Thomas  Chatterton. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


349 


THE  MASS. 

With  naked  foot,  and  sackcloth  vest, 
And  arms  infolded  on  his  breast, 

Did  every  pilgrim  go ; 
The  standers-by  might  hear  uneath, 
Footstep,   or  voice,   or    high-drawn 
breath, 

Through  all  the  lengthened  row : 
No  lordly  look,  nor  martial  stride, 
Gone  was  their  glory,  sunk  their  pride, 

Forgotten  their  renown ; 
Silent  and  slow,  like  ghosts,  they  glide 
To  the  high  altar's  hallowed  side. 

And  there  they  knelt  them  down : 
AbdVe  the  suppliant  chieftains  wave 
The  banners  of  departed  brave ; 
Beneath  the  lettered  stones  were  laid 
The  ashes  of  their  fathers  dead ; 
From  many  a  garnished  niche  around, 
Stern  saints  and  tortured  martyrs 
frowned. 

And  slow  up  the  dim  aisle  afar, 
With  sable  cowl  and  scapular, 
And  snow-white  stoles,  in  order  due. 
The  holy  Fathers,  two  and  two. 

In  long  procession  came : 
Taper,  and  host,  and  book  they  bare. 
And  holy  banner,  flourished  fair 

With  the  Redeemer's  name. 
Above  the  prostrate  pilgrim  band 
The  mitred  Abbot  stretched  his  hand, 

And  blessed  them  as  they  kneeled ; 
With  holy  cross  he  signed  them  all, 
And  prayed  they  might  be  sage  in  hall, 

And  fortunate  in  field. 
Then  mass  was  sung,  and  prayers 

were  said, 
And  solemn  requiem  for  the  dead ; 
And  bells  tolled  out  their  mighty  peal. 
For  the  departed  spirit's  weal; 
And  ever  in  the  office  close 
The  hymn  of  intercession  rose ; 
And  far  the  echoing  aisles  prolong 
The  awful  burden  of  the  song,  — 

Dies  ir^.  Dies  illa 

SOLVET  S^CLUM  IN  FA VILLA ; 

Wliile  the  pealing  organ  rung ; 
Were  it  meet  with  sacred  strain 
To  close  my  lay,  so  light  and  vain, 
Thus  the  holy  Fathers  sung:  — 

HYMN  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day. 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass 
away, 


What  power  shall  be  the  sinner's 

stay? 
How  shall  he  meet  that    dreadful 

day? 

When,   shrivelling  like    a    parched 

scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll ; 
When    louder    yet,    and    yet   more 

dread. 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes 

the  dead ! 

Oh!    on    that    day,    that    wrathful 

day. 
When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from 

clay, 
Be    Thou    the    trembling    sinner's 

stay, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass 

away! 

Scott. 


FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

"And  whither  would  you  lead  me 
then?" 

Quoth  the  Friar  of  orders  gray ; 
And  the  ruffians  twain  replied  again, 

"  By  a  dying  woman  to  pray."  — 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "  a  lovely  sight, 
A  sight  bodes  little  harm, 

A  lady  as  a  lily  bright. 
With  an  infant  on  her  arm."  — 

*'  Then  do  thine  office.  Friar  gray, 
And  see  thou  shrive  her  free ! 

Else  shall  the  sprite  that  parts  to- 
night, 
Fling  all  its  guilt  on  thee. 

"  Let  mass  be  said,  and  trentals  read, 
When  thou'rt  to  convent  gone. 

And  bid  the  bell  of  St.  Benedict 
Toll  out  its  deepest  tone." 

The  shrift  is  done,  the  Friar  is  gone, 
Blindfolded  as  he  came ;  — 

Next  morning  all,  in  Littlecot  Hall 
Were  weeping  for  their  dame. 

Wild  Darrell  is  an  altered  man. 
The  village  crones  can  tell ; 

He  looks  pale  as  clay,  and  strives  to 
pray, 
If  he  hears  the  convent  bell. 


350 


PARNASSUS. 


If  prince  or  peer  cross  Darrell's  way, 
He'll  beard  him  in  his  pride ;  — 

K  he  meet  a  Friar  of  orders  gray, 
He  droops  and  turns  aside. 

Scott. 


GRiEME  AND  BEWICK. 

GUDE  Lord    Graeme   is  to  Carlisle 
gane : 
Sir  Robert  Bewick  there  met  he ; 
And  arm  in  arm  to  the  wine  they 
did  go, 
And  they  drank   till    they  were 
baith  merrie. 

Gude  Lord  Graeme  has  ta'en  up  the 
cup, 
"  Sir  Robert  Bewick,  and  here's 
to  thee ! 
And  here's  to  our  twae  sons  at  hame ! 
For  they  like  us  best  in  our  ain 
countrie."  — 

"  O  were  your  son  a  lad  like  mine, 
And  learned  some  books  that  he 
could  read, 
They  might  hae  been  twae  brethren 
bauld. 
And  they  might  hae  bragged  the 
Border  side. 

"But  your  son's  a  lad,  and  he  is 
but  bad. 
And  billie  to  my  son  he  canna  be : 


"Ye  sent  him  to  school,  and   he 
wadna  learn : 
Ye  bought   him    books,   and   he 
wadna  read."  — 
"But  my  blessing  shall  he  never 
earn. 
Till  I  see  how  his  arm  can  defend 
his  head."  — 

Gude  Lord  Graeme  has  a  reckoning 
called ; 
A  reckoning  then  called  he ; 
And  he  paid  a  crown,  and  it  went 
roun' ; 
It  was  all  for  the  gude  wine  and 
free. 

And  he  has  to  the  stable  gane. 
Where  there  stude  thirty  steeds 
and  three ; 


He'ts  ta'en  his  ain  horse  amangthem 
a', 
And  hame  he  rade  sae  manfullie. 

'  ■  Welcome,  my  auld  father ! "  said 
Christie  Graeme, 
"  But  where  sae  lang  frae  hame 
were  ye?  "  — 
"  It's  I  hae  been  at  Carlisle  town. 
And  a  baffled  man  by  thee  I  be. 

"  I  hae  been  at  Carlisle  town, 
Wliere  Sir  Robert  Bewick  he  met 
me; 
He  says  ye' re  a  lad,  and  ye  are  but 
bad, 
And  billie  to  his  son  ye  canna  be. 

"  I  sent  ye  to  school,  and  ye  wadna 
learn ; 
I  bought  ye  books,  and  ye  wadna 
read; 
Wherefore    my    blessing    ye    shall 
never  earn. 
Till  I  see  with  Bewick  thou  save 
thy  head.'' 

"Now,  God  forbid,  my  auld  father; 

That  ever  sic  a  thing  suld  be ! 
Billie  Bewick  was  my  master,  and 
I  was  his  scholar. 
And  aye  sae  weel  as  he  learned 
me."  — 

"O  hald  thy  tongue,  thou  limmer 
loon, 
And  of  thy  talking  let  me  be ! 
If  tliou  does  na  end  me  this  quarrel 
soon. 
There  is  my  glove,  I'll  fight  wi' 
thee."  — 

Then  Christie  Graeme    he   stooped 
low 
Unto  the  ground,  you  shall  under- 
stand ;  — 
"  O  father,  put  on  your  glove  again, 
The  wind  has  blown  it  from  your 
hand  ?  "  — 

"What's  that  thou  says,  thou  limmer 
loon? 
How  dares  thou  stand  to  speak  to 
me? 
If    thou  do   not    end    this    quarrel 
soon. 
There's  ray  right  hand,  thou  shalt 
fight  with  me."  — 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


351 


Then  Christie  Graeme's  to  his  cham- 
ber gane, 
To  consider  weel  what  then  should 
be; 
Whetlier  he   should  fight  with  his 
auld  father, 
Or  with  his  billie  Bewick,  he. 

"  If  I  suld  Idll  my  billie  dear, 
God's  blessing  I  shall  never  win; 

But  if  I  strike  at  my  auld  father, 
I  think  'twald  be  a  mortal  sin. 

*'  But  if  I  kill  my  billie  dear, 

It  is  God's  will,  so  let  it  be; 
But  I  Tnake  a  vow,  ere  I  gang  frae 

hame. 
That    I    shall    be    the  next  man's 

die."  — 

Then  he's  put  on's  back  a  gude  auld 
jack. 
And  on  his  head  a  cap  of  steel, 
And  sword  and  buckler  by  his  side ; 

0  gin  he  did  not  become  them  weel ! 

We'll  leave  off  talking  of   Christie 
Graeme, 
And  talk  of  him  again  belive ; 
And  we  will  talk  of  bonny  Bewick, 
Where     he     was     teaching     his 
scholars  five. 

When  he  had  taught  them  well  to 
fence, 
And  handle  swords  without  any 
doubt. 
He  took  his  sword  under  his  arm. 
And  he  walked  his  father's  close 
about. 

He  looked  atween  him  and  the  sun. 
And  a'  to  see  what  there  might  be. 

Till  he  spied  a  man  in  armour  bright, 
Was  riding  that  way  most  hastilie. 

"  O  wha  is  yon  that  came  this  way, 

Sae  hastilie  that  hither  came  ? 
I  think  it  be  my  brother  dear ! 

1  think    it    be    young     Christie 

Graeme.  — 

"  Ye' re  welcome  here,  my  billie  dear, 

And  thrice  ye' re  welcome    unto 

me! "  — 

"  But  I'm  wae  to  say,  I've  seen  the 

day. 

When  I  am  come  to  fight  wi'  thee. 


''  My  father's  gane  to  Carlisle  town, 
Wi'  your  father  Bewick  there 
met  he ; 

He  says  I'm  a  lad,  and  I  am  but  bad, 
And  a  baflied  man  I  trow  I  be. 

"  He  sent  me  to  school,  and  I  wadna 
learn ; 
He  gae  me  books,  and  I  wadna 
read ; 
Sae  my  father's  blessing  I'll  never 
earn. 
Till  he  see  how  my  arm  can  guard 
my  head."  — 

"  O  God  forbid,  my  billie  dear, 
That  ever  such  a  thing  suld  be ! 

We'll  take  three  men  on  either  side, 
And  see  if    we  can  our  fathers 
agree."  — 

"  O    hald    thy  tongue,  now,  billie 
Bewick, 
And  of  thy  talking  let  me  be ! 
But  if  thou'rt  a  man,  as  I'm  sure 
thou  art. 
Come  o'er  the  dyke,  and  fight  wi' 
me."  — 

"  But  I  hae  nae  harness,  billie,  on 
my  back. 
As  weel  I  see  there  is  on  thine."  — 
*'  But  as  little  harness  as  is  on  thy 
back, 
As    little,     billie,     shall    be    on 
mine."  — 

Then  he's  thrown  aff   his    coat  o' 
mail 

His  cap  of  steel  away  flung  he ; 
He  stuck  his  spear  into  the  ground, 

And  he  tied  his  horse  unto  a  tree. 

Then  Bewick  has    thrown    aff  his 
cloak, 
And's    psalter-book    frae's    hand 
flung  he ; 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  dyke. 
And  ower  he  lap  most  manf ullie. 

O  they  hae  fought  for  twae  lang 
hours ; 
When  twae  lang  hours  were  come 
and  gane. 
The  sweat  drapped  fast  frae  aff  them 
baith. 
But  a  drap  of  blude  could  not  be 
seen. 


352 


PARNASSUS. 


Till    Graeme   gae    Bewick   an   ack- 
waid  stroke, 
Ane     ackward     stroke     strucken 
sickerlie ; 
He  has  hit  him  under  the  left  breast, 
And  dead-wounded  to  the  ground 
fell  he. 

" Rise  up,  rise  up,  now,  billie  dear! 
Arise  and   speak   three  words  to 

me!  — 
Whether  thou's   gotten  thy  deadly 

wound. 
Or  if  God   and  good  leeching  may 

succour  thee?"  — 

"  O    horse,    O    horse,    now,    billie 
Graeme, 
And  get  thee  far  from  hence  with 
speed : 
And  get  thee  out  of  this  country, 
That  none  may  know  who    has 
done  the  deed."  — 

"  O  I  hae  slain  thee,  billie  Bewick, 
If  this  be  true  thou  tellest  to  me ; 

But  I  made  a  vow,  ere  I  came  frae 
hame, 
That  aye  the  next  man  I  wad  be." 

He    has    pitched    his    sword    in    a 

moodie-hill, 

And  he  has  leaped  twenty  lang 

feet  and  three, 

And  on  his  ain  sword's  point  he  lap. 

And  dead  upon  the  ground  fell  he. 

*Twas    then    came    up  Sir  Robert 
Bewick, 
And  his  brave  son  alive  saw  he; 
"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  son,"  he  said, 
"For  I  think  ye  hae  gotten  the 
victorie."  — 

*'  O  hald  your  tongue,  my  father  dear ! 

Of  your  prideful  talking  let  me  be ! 
Ye  might  hae  drunken  your  wine  in 
peace. 

And  let  me  and  my  billie  be. 

"  Gae  dig  a  grave,  baith  wide  and 
deep. 
And  a  grave  to  hald  baith  him 
and  me ; 
But    lay    Christie    Graeme    on   the 
sunny  side, 
"For  I'm  sure   he  wan  the  vic- 
torie." 


"Alack ! a wae ! "  auld  Bewick  cried. 

"  Alack !  was  I  not  much  to  blame  ? 
I'm  sure  I've  lost  the  liveliest  lad 

That  e'er  was  born  unto  my 
name." 

"Alack!  a  wae!"   quo'  gude  Lord 
Graeme, 
"  I'm   sure  I  hae  lost  the  deeper 
lack! 
I    durst    hae   ridden    the    Border 
through, 
Had  Christie  Graeme  been  at  my 
back. 

"  Had  I  been  led  through  Liddesdale, 
And  thirty  horseman  guarding  me, 

And   Christie   Graeme  been    ait  my 
back, 
Sae  soon  as  he  had  set  me  free  I 

"  I've  lost  my  hopes,  I've  lost  my  joy, 

I've  lost  the  key  but  and  the  lock: 

I  durst  hae  ridden  the  world  round, 

Had  Christie  Graeme  been  at  my 

back." 

Scott's  Border  Minstrelsy. 


KING  JOHN  AND  THE  ABBOT 
OF  CANTERBURY. 

An  ancient  story  I'll  tell  you  anon 

Of  a  notable  prince  that  was  called 
King  John ; 

And  he  ruled  England  with  main 
and  with  might. 

For  he  did  great  wrong,  and  main- 
tained little  right. 

And  I'll  tell  you  a  story,  a  story  so 
merry 

Concerning  the  Abbot  of  Canter- 
bury ; 

How  for  his  house-keeping  and  high 
renown, 

They  rode  poste  for  him  to  fair  Lon- 
don towne. 

All  hundred  men  the  king  did  heare 

say. 
The  abbot  kept  in  his  house  every 

day; 
And  fifty  golde  chaynes  without  any 

doubt. 
In  velvet  coates  waited  the  abbot 

about. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


353 


"  How  now,  father  abbot,  I  heare  it 

of  thee, 
Thou  keepest  a  farre  better  house 

than  mee ; 
And  for  thy  house-keeping  and  high 

renowne, 
I  feare  thou  work'st  treason  against 

my  crown." 

".My  liege"  quo'  the  abbot,  "I  would 

it  were  knowne 
I  never  spend  nothing,  but  what  is 

my  owne ; 
And  I  trust  your  grace  will  doe  me 

no  deere, 
For  spending  of  my  owne  true-gotten 

geere." 

"Yes,  yes,  father  abbot,  thy  fault 

it  is  highe. 
And  now  for  the  same  thou  needest 

must  dye ; 
For  except  thou  canst  answer  me 

questions  three, 
Thy  head  shall  be  smitten  from  thy 

bodie. 

"And  first,"  quo'  the  king,  "when 

I'm  in  this  stead, 
With  my  crowne  of  golde  so  faire  on 

my  head. 
Among  all  my  liege-men  so  noble  of 

birthe, 
Thou  must  tell  me  to  one  penny 

what  I  am  worthe. 

"Secondly,    tell    me,    without    any 

doubt. 
How  soone  I  may  ride  the  whole 

world  about ; 
And  at  the  third  question  thou  must 

not  shrink. 
But  tell  me  here  truly  what  I  do 

think." 

"  O  these  are  hard  questions  for  my 

shallow  witt. 
Nor  I  cannot  answer  your  grace  as 

yet: 
But  if  you  will  give  me  but  three 

weeks  space, 
He  do  my  endeavour  to  answer  your 

grace." 

"Now  three  weeks  space    to  thee 

will  I  give, 
And  that  is  the  longest  time  thou 

hast  to  live ; 
23 


For  if  thou  dost  not  answer  my 
questions  three. 

Thy  lands  and  thy  livings  are  for- 
feit to  mee." 

Away  rode  the  abbot  all  sad  at  that 

word, 
And    he    rode    to    Cambridge,   and 

Oxenf  ord ; 
But  never  a  doctor  there  was    so 

wise. 
That  could  with    his    learning    an 

answer  devise. 

Then  home  rode  the  abbot  of  com- 
fort so  cold, 

And  he  met  his  shepheard  a-going  to 
fold: 

"How  now,  my  lord  abbot,  you  are 
welcome  home ; 

What  newes  do  you  bring  us  from 
good  King  John?" 

"Sad  news,  sad  news,  shepheard,  I 

must  give. 
That  I  have  but  three  days  more  to 

live; 
'For  if  I  do  not  answer  him  questions 

three, 
My  head  will  be  smitten  from  my 

body. 

"  The  first  is  to  tell  him,  there  in 

that  stead, 
With  his  crowne  of  golde  so  fair  on 

his  head, 
Among  all  his  liege-men  so  noble  of 

birth, 
To  within  one  penny  of  what  he  is 

worth. 

"  The  seconde,  to  tell  him  without 

any  doubt. 
How  soone  he  may  ride  this  whole 

world  about ; 
And  at  the  third  question  I  must 

not  shrinke, 
But  tell  him  there  truly  what  he 

does  thinke." 

"  Now  cheare  up,  sire  abbot,  did  you 

never  hear  yet, 
That  a  fool  he  may  learne  a  wise 

man  witt? 
Lend  me  horse,  and   serving  men, 

and  your  apparel, 
And  He  ride  to  London  to  auswere 

your  quarrel. 


?54 


PARNASSUS. 


"  Nay   frowne  not,   if  it  hath  bin 

told  unto  me, 
I  am  like  your  lordship,  as  ever  may 

be; 
And  if  you  will  but  lend  me  your 

gowne, 
There  is  none  shall  know  us  at  fair 

London  towne." 

"  Now  horses  and  serving-men  thou 

shalt  have. 
With  sumptuous  array  most  gallant 

and  brave, 
With  crozier,  and  miter,  and  rochet, 

and  cope, 
Fit  to  appear  'fore  our  fader  the 

pope." 

"Now  welcome,   sire    abbot,"    the 

king  he  did  say, 
"Tis    well    thou'rt    come    back    to 

keepe  thy  day : 
For  and  if  thou  canst  answer  my 

questions  three. 
Thy  life  and  thy  living  both  sav^d 

shall  be. 

"  And  first,  when  thou  seest  me  here 

in  this  stead. 
With  my  crowne  of  golde  so  fair  on 

my  head, 
Among  all  my  liege-men  so  noble  of 

birthe. 
Tell  me  to  one  penny  what  I  am 

worth." 

*'  For  thirty  pence  our  Saviour  was 

sold 
Among  the  false  Jewes,  as  I  have 

bin  told : 
And  twenty-nine  is  the  worth    of 

thee. 
For  I  thinke  thou  art  one  penny 

worser  than  he." 

The  king  he  laughed,  and  swore  by 

St.  Bittel, 
*'I  did  not  think  I  had  been  worth 

so  littel ! 
—  Now  secondly  tell    me,  without 

any  doubt, 
How  soone  I  may  ride  this  whole 

world  about." 

**  You  must  rise  with  the  sun,  and 

ride  with  the  same 
Until  the  next  morning  he  riseth 

againe : 


And  then  your  grace  need  not  make 

any  doubt 
But  in  twenty-four  hours  you'll  ride 

it  about." 

The  king  he  laughed,  and  swore  by 

St.  Jone, 
*'  I  did  not  think  it  could  be  gone  so 

soone ! 
—  Now  from  the  third  question  thou 

must  not  shrinke. 
But  tell  me  here  truly  what  I  do 

thinke." 

"  Yea,  that  shall  I  do,  and  make 
your  grace  merry ; 

You  thinke  I'm  the  abbot  of  Canter- 
bury; 

But  I'm  his  poor  shepheard,  as  plain 
you  may  see. 

That  am  come  to  beg  pardon  for 
him  and  for  me." 

The  king  he  laughed,  and  swore  by 

the  Masse, 
"He  make  thee  lord  abbot  this  day 

in  his  place !" 
"Now  naye,   my    liege,   be  not  in 

such  speede. 
For  alacke  I  can  neither  write  ne 

reade." 

"Four  nobles  a  week,  then  I  will 

give  thee. 
For  this  merry  jest  thou  hast  showne 

unto  me ; 
And  tell  the  old  abbot  when  thou 

comest  home. 
Thou  hast   brought  him   a  pardon 

from  good  King  John." 

Percy's  Reliques. 


THE  SALLY  FROM  COVEN- 
TRY. 

"  Passion  o'  me!"  cried  Sir  Richard 
Tyrone, 

Spurning  the  sparks  from  the  broad 
paving-stone, 

"  Better  turn  nurse  and  rock  chil- 
dren to  sleep. 

Than  yield  to  a  rebel  old  Coventry 
Keep. 

No,  by  my  halidom,  no  one  shall 
say. 

Sir  Richard  Tyrone  gave  a  city 
away." 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


355 


Passion  o'  me !  how  lie  pulled  at  his 
beard ! 

Fretting  and  chafing  if  any  one 
sneered, 

Clapping  his  breastplate  and  shak- 
ing his  fist, 

Giving  his  grizzly  moustachios  a 
twist. 

Running  the  protocol  through  with 
his  steel, 

Grinding  the  letter  to  mud  with  his 
heel. 

Then  he  roared  out  for  a  pottle  of 

sack. 
Clapped  the  old  trumpeter  twice  on 

the  back, 
Leaped  on  his  bay  with  a  dash  and 

a  swing, 
Bade  all  the  bells  in  the  city  to  ring, 
And  when  the  red  flag  from    the 

steeple  went  down. 
Open  they  flung  every  gate  in  the 

town. 

To  boot!  and  to  horse!  and  away 
like  a  flood, 

A  fire  in  their  eyes,  and  a  sting  in 
their  blood ; 

Hurrying  out  with  a  flash  and  a 
flare, 

A  roar  of  hot  guns,  a  loud  trumpet- 
er's blare, 

And  first,  sitting  proud  as  a  king  on 
his  throne. 

At  the  head  of  them  all  dashed  Sir 
Richard  Tyrone. 

Crimson,   and    yellow,    and    purple 

and  dun, 
Fluttering  scarf,  flowing  bright  in 

the  sun, 
Steel  like  a  mirror  on  brow  and  on 

breast. 
Scarlet  and  white  on   their  feather 

and  crest. 
Banner  that  blew  in  a  torrent  of  red, 
Borne  by  Sir  Richard,  who  rode  at 

their  head. 

The  "trumpet"  went  down  —  with 

a  gash  on  his  poll, 
Struck  by  the  parters  of  body  and 

soul. 
Forty     saddles    were     empty;    the 

horses  ran  red 
With  foul  Puritan  blood  from  the 

slashes  that  bled. 


Curses  and  cries  and  a  gnashing  of 

teeth, 
A  grapple  and  stab  on  the  slippery 

heath, 
And  Sir  Richard  leaped  up  on  the 

fool  that  went  down, 
Proud  as  a  conqueror  donning  his 

crown. 
They  broke  them  away  through  a 

flooding  of  fire. 
Trampling  the  best  blood  of  London 

to  mire, 
When  suddenly  rising  a  smoke  and 

a  blaze, 
Made  all  "the  dragon's  sons  "  stare 

in  amaze : 
"O  ho!"  quoth  Sir  Richard,  "my 

city  grows  hot, 
I've  left  it  rent-paid  to  the  villainous 

Scot." 

G.  W.  THOBNBtJBY. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE 
GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GHENT 
TO  AIX. 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris 
and  he ; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  gal- 
loped all  three ; 

"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch  as 
the  gate-bolts  undrew, 

"Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us 
galloping  through ; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights 
sank  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped 
abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other :  we  kept 

the  great  pace 
Neck   and    neck,    stride    by  stride, 

never  changing  our  place. 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its 

girths  tight. 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set 

the  pique  right. 
Re-buckled  the  check-strap,  chained 

slacker  the  bit ; 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a 

whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting,  but  while 

we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew,  and  twilight 

dawned  clear ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came 

out  to  see, 


356 


PARNASSUS. 


At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain 

as  could  be ; 
And  from    Mecheln   cliurch-steeple 

we  heard  the  half  chime ; 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with   ''Yet 

there  is  time." 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden 
the  sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood 
black  every  one 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  gal- 
loping past, 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper,  Roland, 
at  last. 

With  resolute  shoulders  each  but- 
ting away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  head- 
land its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one 
sliarp  ear  bent  back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked 
out  on  his  track ; 

And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,  — 
ever  that  glance 

O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  its  own 
master,  askance ! 

And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes, 
which  aye  and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  gal- 
loping on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and 
cried  Joris,  "  Stay  spur! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the 
fault's  not  in  her, 

We'll  remember  at  Aix;  "  — for  one 
heard  the  quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched 
neck  and  staggering  knees. 

And  sunk  tall,  and  horrible  heave  of 
the  flank. 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shud- 
dered and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no 
cloud  in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  piti- 
less laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle 
bright  stubble  like  chaff; 

Till  over  by  Dalhelm  a  dome-spire 
sprang  white. 

And  *' Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for 
Aix  is  in  sight!" 


"How  they'll  greet  us!"  —  and  all 
in  a  moment  his  roan 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead 
as  a  stone, 

And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear 
the  whole  weight 

Of  the  news,  which  alone  could  save 
Aix  from  her  fate. 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of 
blood  to  the  brim, 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye- 
socket's  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff  coat,  each 
holster  let  fall. 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go 
belt  and  all, 

Stood  up  in  tlie  stirrup,  leaned, 
patted  liis  ear. 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet  name,  iny 
horse  without  peer; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang, 
any  noise  bad  or  good. 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  gal- 
loped and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flock- 
ing round. 
As  I  sate  witli  his  head  'twixt  my 

knees  on  the  ground, 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this 

Roland  of  mine. 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our 

last  measure  of  wine. 
Which,  ( I  he  burgesses  voted  by  com- 

mon  consent,) 
Was  no  more  than    his    due    who 

brought     good     news      from 

Ghent. 

Robert  Browning. 


LOCHINYAR. 

O,  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of 

the  west. 
Through  all  the  wide    Border    his 

steed  was  the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword,  he 

weapon  had  none. 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all 

alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless 

in  war. 
There  never  was    knight    like    the 

young  Lochinvar. 


NAERATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALI.ADS. 


357 


He    staid    not    for   brake,    and    he 

stopped  not  for  stone, 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford 

there  was  none ; 
But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 
The  bride  had  consented,  tlie  gallant 

came  late ; 
For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard 

in  war. 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave 

Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby 

Hall, 
Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and 

brothers  and  all : 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his 

hand  on  his  sword, 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said 

never  a  word, ) 
"  O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come 

ye  in  war. 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 

Lochinvar?" — 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my 

suit  you  denied ;  — 
Love   swells  like    the    Solway,  but 

ebbs  like  its  tide  — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost 

love  of  mine. 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one 

cup  of  wine. 
Ther^are  maidens  in  Scotland  more 

lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the 

young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride   kissed  the    goblet:   the 

knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off    the  wine,  and    he 

threw  down  tlie  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she 

looked  up  to  sigh. 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear 

in  her  eye. 
"fie    took    her    soft    hand,  ere    her 

mother  could  bar,  — 
''Now  tread  we  a  measure!"  said 

young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her 

face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did 

grace ; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her 

father  did  fume, 


And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling 
his  bonnet  and  plume ; 

And  the  bride-maidens  wliispered, 
"  'Twere  better  by  far. 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin 
with  young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word 
in  her  ear. 

When  they  reached  the  hall-door, 
and  the  charger  stood  near ; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady 
he  swung. 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he 
sprung ! 

"She  is  won!  we  are  gone,  over 
bank,  bush,  and  scaur ; 

They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  fol- 
low," quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes 

of  the  Netherby  clan ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves, 

they  rode  and  they  ran : 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on 

Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er 

did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless 

in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like 

young  Lochinvar  ? 

Scott. 


RHOTRUDA. 

In  the  golden  reign  of  Charlemagne 

the  king, 
The    three    and    thirtieth    year,  or 

thereabout. 
Young  Eginardus,  bred  about  the 

court, 
(Left    mother-naked    at  a  postern- 
door,  ) 
Had  thence  by  slow  degrees  ascended 

up;  — 
First  page,  then  pensioner,  lastly  the 

king's  knight 
And  secretary ;  yet  held  these  steps 

for  naught 
Save  as  they  led  him  to  the  Princess' 

feet. 
Eldest    and    loveliest  of   the  regal 

three, 
Most  gracious  too,  and  liable  to  love : 
For  Bertha  was  betrothed ;  and  she, 

the  third, 


358 


PARNASSUS. 


Giselia,  would  not  look  upon  a  man. 
So,  bending  his  whole  heart  unto 

this  end, 
He  watched  and  waited,  trusting  to 

stir  to  fire 
The  indolent  interest  in  those  large 

eyes, 
And  feel  the  languid  hands  beat  in 

his  own. 
Ere  the  new  spring.     And  well  he 

played  his  part ; 
Slipping  no  chance  to  bribe,  or  brush 

aside, 
All  that  would  stand  between  him 

and  the  light ; 
Making  fast  foes  in  sooth,  but  feeble 

friends. 
But  what  cared  he,  who  had  read  of 

ladies'  love, 
And  how  young  Launcelot  gained 

his  Guinevere; 
A  foundling  too,   or  of    uncertain 

strain  ? 
And  when    one    morning,    coming 

from  the  bath, 
He  crossed  the  Princess  on  the  pal- 
ace-stair. 
And  kissed  her  there  in  her  sweet 

disarray. 
Nor  met  the  death  he  dreamed  of,  in 

her  eyes,  — 
He  knew  himself    a  hero  of  (old) 

romance; 
Not  seconding,  but  surpassing,  what 

had  been. 

And  so  they  loved ;  if  that  tumultu- 
ous pain 

Be  love,  —  disquietude  of  deep  de- 
light, 

And  sharpest  sadness:  nor  though 
he  knew  her  heart 

His  very  own,  —  gained  on  the  in- 
stant too, 

And  like  a  waterfall  that  at  one  leap 

Plunges  from  pines  to  palms,  —  shat- 
tered at  once 

To  wreaths  of  mist,  and  broken 
spray-bows  bright. 

He  loved  not  less,  nor  wearied  of 
her  smile; 

But  through  the  daytime  held  aloof 
and  strange 

His  walk;  mingling  with  knightly 
mirth  and  game ; 

Solicitous  but  to  avoid  alone 

Aught  that  might  make  against  him 
in  her  mind ; 


Yet  strong  in  this,  —  that,  let  the 

world  have  end. 
He  had  pledged  his  own,  and  held 

Rhotruda's  troth. 

But  Love,  who  had  led  these  lovers 

thus  along. 
Played  them  a  trick  one  windy  night 

and  cold : 
For    Eginardus,  as    his    wont    had 

been. 
Crossing  the  quadrangle,  and  under 

dark,  — 
No  faint  moonshine,  nor  sign  of  any 

star,  — 
Seeking  the    Princess'    door,    such 

welcome  found. 
The  knight  forgot  his  prudence  in 

his  love ; 
For  lying  at  her  feet,  her  hands  in 

his. 
And  telling  tales  of  knightship  and 

emprise. 
And    ringing    war;    while    up   the 

smooth  white  arm 
His  fingers  slid  insatiable  of  touch, 
The  night  grew  old :  still  of  the  hero- 
deeds 
That  he  had  seen,  he  spoke;   and 

bitter  blows 
Where  all  the  land   seemed  driven 

into  dust ! 
Beneath    fair  Pavia's    wall,   where 

Loup  beat  down 
The  Longobard,  and    Charlemagne 

laid  on, 
Cleaving  horse  and  rider;  then,  for 

dusty  drought 
Of  the  fierce  tale,  he  drew  her  lips 

to  his, 
And  silence  locked  the  lovers  fast 

and  long, 
Till  the  great  bell  crashed  One  into 

their  dream. 

The    castle-bell!    and  Eginard   not 

away! 
With  tremulous  haste  she  led  him 

to  the  door, 
Wlien,  lo !  the  courtyard  white  with 

fallen  snow. 
While  clear  the  night  hung  over  it 

with  stars. 
A  dozen  steps,  scarce  that,  to  his 

own  door  ; 
A  dozen  steps  ?  a  gulf  impassable ! 
What    to    be    done?    Their    secret 

must  not  lie 


NAERATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


359 


Bare  to  tlie  sneering  eye  with  the 
first  light ; 

She  could  not  have  his  footsteps  at 
her  door ! 

Discovery  and  destruction  were  at 
hand: 

And,  with  the  thought,  they  kissed, 
and  kissed  agaia; 

When  suddenly  the  lady,  bending, 
drew 

Her  lover  towards  her  half-unwil- 
lingly, 

And  on  her  shoulders  fairly  took  him 
there,  — 

Wlio  held  his  breath  to  lighten  all 
his  weight,  — 

And  lightly  carried  him  the  court- 
yard's length 

To  his  own  door ;  then,  like  a  fright- 
ened hare, 

Fled  back  in  her  own  tracks  unto 
her  bower. 

To  pant  awhile,  and  rest,  that  all 
was  safe. 

But  Charlemagne  the  king,  who  had 

risen  by  night 
To    look    upon    memorials,    or    at 

ease 
To  read  and  sign  an  ordinance  of 

the  realm,  — 
The  Fanolehen,  or  Cunigosteura 
For  tithing  corn,  so  to  confirm  the 

same, 
And  stamp  it  with  the  pommel  of 

his  sword,  — 
Hearing  their  voices   in  the  court 

below. 
Looked  from  his  window,  and  beheld 

the  pair. 

Angry,  the  king;  yet  laughing-half 

to  view 
The  strangeness  and  vagary  of  the 

feat; 
Laughmg  indeed !  with  twenty  minds 

to  call 
From  his    inner    bed-chamber   the 

Forty  forth. 
Who  watched  all  night  beside  their 

monarch's  bed, 
With  naked  swords  and  torches  m 

their  hands, 
And  test  this  lover' s-knot  with  steel 

and  fire ; 
But  with  a   thought,  "  To-morrow 

yet  will  serve 


To  greet  these  mummers,"  softly  the 

window  closed, 
And  so  went  back  to  his   corn-tax 

again. 

But,  with  the  morn,  the  king  a  meet- 
ing called 

Of  all  his  lords,  courtiers  and  kin- 
dred too. 

And  squire  and  dame,  —  in  the  great 
Audience  Hall 

Gathered ;  where  sat  the  king,  with 
the  high  crown 

Upon  his  brow ;  beneath  a  drapery 

That  fell  around  him  like  a  cataract. 

With  flecks  of  colour  crossed  and  can- 
cellate ; 

And  over  this,  like  trees  about  a 
stream, 

Eich  carven-work,  heavy  with  wreath 
and  rose, 

Palm  and  palmirah,  fruit  and  fron- 
dage,  hung. 

And  more  the  high  Hall  held  of  rare 

and  strange ; 
For  on  the  king's  right  hand  Lesena 

bowed 
In  cloudlike  marble,  and  beside  her 

crouched 
The  tongueless  lioness ;  on  the  other 

side. 
And  poising  this,  the  second  Sappho 

stood, — 
Young  Erexce'a,  with  her  head  dis- 
crowned. 
The  anadema  on  the  horn  of  her 

lyre ; 
And  by  the  walls    there    hung    in 

sequence  long 
Merlin  himself,  and  Uterpendragon, 
With  all  their  mighty  deeds ;  down 

to  the  day 
Wlien  all  the  world  seemed  lost  in 

wreck  and  rout,  — 
A  wrath  of  crashing  steeds  and  men ; 

and,  in 
The  broken    battle    fighting    hope- 
lessly, 
King  Arthur,  with  the  ten  wounds 

on  his  head ! 

But  not  to  gaze  on  these,  appeared 

the  peers. 
Stern  looked  the  king,  and,  when  the 

court  was  met,  — 
The   lady    and    her   lover   in    the 

»iidst,  — 


360 


PARNASSUS. 


Spoke  to  his  lords,  demanding  them 

of  this : 
"  What  merits  he,  the  servant  of  the 

king, 
Forgetful  of  his  place,  his  trust,  his 

oath, 
Who,  for  his  own  bad  end,  to  hide 

his  fault, 
Makes  use  of  her,  a  Princess  of  the 

realm. 
As  of  a  mule ;  —  a  beast  of  burthen ! 

—  borne 
Upon    her    shoulders    through    the 

winter's  night, 
And  wind  and  snow  ?  "  —  "  Death !  " 

said  the  angry  lords ; 
And  knight  and  squire  and  minion 

murmured,  "Death!" 
Not    one     discordant     voice.      But 

Charlemagne, 
Though  to    his    foes  a  circulating 

sword. 
Yet,  as  a  king,  mild,  gracious,  exora- 

ble. 
Blest  in  his  children  too,  with  but 

one  bom 
To  vex  his  flesh  like  an  ingrowing 

nail,  — 
Looked  kindly  on  the  trembling  pair, 

and  said : 
"Yes,  Eginardus,  well   hast   thou 

deserved 
Death  for  this  thing ;  for,  hadst  thou 

loved  her  so. 
Thou    shouldst   have    sought    her 

Father's  will  in  this,  — ^ 
Protector  and  disposer  of  his  child,  — 
And  asked  her  hand  of  him,  her  lord 

and  thine. 
Thy  life  is  forfeit  here ;  but  take  it, 

thou!  — 
Take  even  two  lives  for  this  forfeit 

one; 
And    thy  fair  portress  —  wed   her; 

honour  God, 
Love    one    another,    and    obey  the 

king." 

Thus  far  the  legend;   but  of  Eho- 

trude's  .smile. 
Or  of  the  lords'  applause,  as  truly 

they 
Would    have  applauded    their  first 

judgment  too. 
We  nothing  learn :  yet  still  the  story 

lives ; 
Shines  like  a  light  across  those  dark 

old  days, 


Wonderful  glimpse  of  woman's  wit 

and  love ; 
And  worthy  to  be  chronicled  with 

hers 
Who  to  her  lover  dear  threw  down 

her  hair, 
When  all  the  garden  glanced  with 

angry  bjades ! 
Or  like  a  picture  framed  in  battle- 
pikes 
And  bristling  swords,  it  hang?  before 

our  view ;  — 
The    palace-court  white    with   the 

fallen  snow, 
The  good  king  leaning  out  into  the 

night 
And  Rhotrude  bearing  Eginard  on 

her  back. 

TUCKEEMAN. 


GLENLOGIE. 

Three  score  o'  nobles  rade  up  the 

king's  ha'. 
But  bonnie  Glenlogie's  the  flower  o' 

them  a', 
Wi'  his    milk-white  steed  and  his 

bonnie  black  e'e, 
"  Glenlogie,  dear  mither,  Glenlogie 

forme!" 

"O  hand  your  tongue,  daughter, 
ye' 11  get  better  than  he ; " 

"O  say  nae  sae,  mither,  for  that 
canna  be ; 

Though  Doumlie  is  richer,  and 
greater  than  he. 

Yet  if  I  maun  tak  him,  I'll  certain- 
ly dee. 

"  Where  will  I  get  a  bonnie  boy,  to 

win  hose  and  shoon, 
Will    gae    to  Glenlogie,  and    come 

again  soon?" 
"  O  here  am  I  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win 

hose  and  shoon, 
Will    gae    to   Glenlogie    and    come 

again  soon." 

When  he  gaed  to  Glenlogie,  'twas 

"  wash  and  go  dine ;  " 
'Twas  "  wash  ye,  my  pretty  boy,  wash 

and  go  dine," 
"  O  'twas  ne'er  my  father's  fashion, 

and  it  ne'er  shall  be  mine 
To  gar  a  lady's  hasty  errand  wait  till 

I  dine." 


NARKATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


"  But  there  is,  Glenlogie,  a  letter  for 

tliee;" 
The  first   line  that  he  read,  a  low 

smile  gave  he, 
The  next  line  that  he  read,  the  tear 

blindit  his  e'e; 
But  the  last  line  that  he  read,  he 

gart  the  table  flee. 

"Gar  saddle  the  black  horse,   gar 

saddle  the  brown ; 
Gar  saddle  the  swiftest  steed  e'er 

rade  frae  a  town;" 
But  lang  ere  the  horse  was  drawn 

and  brought  to  the  green, 
O  bonnie  Glenlogie  was  twa  mile  his 

lane. 

When  he  came  to  Glenfeldy's  door, 

little  mirth  was  there ; 
Bonnie  Jean's  mother  was  tearing 

her  hair; 
"Ye're    welcome,    Glenlogie,   ye're 

welcome,"  said  she, 
"Ye're    welcome,    Glenlogie,    your 

Jeanie  to  see." 

Pale  and  wan  was  she,  when  Glenlo- 
gie gaed  ben. 

But  red  and  rosy  grew  she,  whene'er 
he  sat  down ; 

She  turned  awa'  her  head,  but  the 
smile  was  in  her  e'e, 

"O  binna  feared,  mither,  I'll  maybe 
no  dee." 
Smith's  Scottish  Minstrel. 


THE    GAY  GOSS-HAWK. 

"  O  WALY,  waly,  my  gay  goss-hawk. 
Gin  your  feathering  be  sheen!" 
"  And  waly,  waly,  my  master  dear. 
Gin  ye  look  pale  and  lean ! " 

"  O  have  ye  tint,  at  tournament. 
Your  sword,  or  yet  your  spear  ? 
Or  mourn  ye  for  the  southern  lass. 
Whom  ye  may  not  win  near  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  tint,  at  tournament, 
My  sword  nor  yet  my  spear ; 
But  sair  I  mourn  for  my  true  love, 
Wi'  mony  a  bitter  tear. 

"But  weel's  me  on  ye,  my  gay  goss- 
hawk, 
Ye  can  baith  speak  and  flee ; 


Ye  sail  carry  a  letter  to  my  love, 
Bring  an  answer  back  to  me." 

"  But  how  sail  I  your  true  love  find, 
Or  how  suld  I  her  know  ? 
I  bear  a  tongue  ne'er  wi'  her  spake. 
An  eye  that  ne'er  her  saw." 

"  O  weel  sail  ye  my  true  love  ken, 
Sae  sune  as  ye  her  see ; 
For,  of  a'  the  flowers  of  fair  Eng- 
land, 
The  fairest  flower  is  she. 

"  The  red,  that's  on  my  true  love's 

cheek, 
Is  like  blood-drops  on  the  snaw ; 
The  white,   that  is  on  her    breast 

bare, 
Like  the  down  o'  the  white  sea-maw. 

"  And  even  at  my  love's  bouer-door 
There  grows  a  flowering  birk ; 
And  ye  maun  sit  and  sing  thereon 
As  she  gangs  to  the  kirk. 

"  And  four  and  twenty  fair  ladyes 
Will  to  the  mass  repair ; 
But  weel  may  ye  my  ladye  ken, 
The  fairest  ladye  there." 

Lord  William  has  written  a  love-let- 
ter, 
Put  it  under  his  pinion  gray ; 
And  he  is  awa  to  southern  land 
As  fast  as  wings  can  gae. 

And  even  at  the  ladye' s  bouer 
There  grew  a  flowering  birk ; 
And  he  sat  down  and  sung  thereon 
As  she  gaed  to  the  kirk. 

And  weel  he  kent  that  ladye  fair 

Amang  her  maidens  free ; 

For  the  flower  that  springs  in  May 

morning 
Was  not  sae  sweet  as  she. 

He  lighted  at  the  ladye's  gate. 
And  sat  him  on  a  pin ; 
And  sang  fu'  sweet  the  notes  o'  love, 
Till  a'  was  cosh  within. 

And  first  he  sang  a  low,  low  note. 
And  syne  he  sang  a  clear; 
And  aye  the  o'er  word  o'  the  sang 
Was  —  "Your    love    can    no    win 
here."  — 


362 


PARNASSUS. 


"  Feast  on,  feast  on,  my  maidens  a', 
The  wine  flows  you  amang, 
Wliile  I  gang  to  my  sliot-window, 
And  hear  yon  bonny  bird's  sang. 

*'  Sing  on,  sing  on,  my  bonny  bird, 
The  sang  ye  sung  yestreen ; 
For  weel  I  ken,  by  your  sweet  sing- 
ing, 
Ye  are  frae  my  true  love  sen." 

O  first  he  sang  a  merry  sang. 
And  syne  he  sang  a  grave ; 
And  syne  lie  picked  his  feathers  gray. 
To  her  the  letter  gave. 

"  Have  there  a  letter  from  Lord  Wil- 
liam; 
He  says  he's  sent  ye  three; 
He  canna  wait  your  love  langer. 
But  for  your  sake  he'll  die."  — 

"  Gae  bid  him  bake  his  bridal  bread, 

And  brew  his  bridal  ale ; 

And  I  shall  meet  him  at  Mary's 

kirk, 
Lang,  lang  ere  it  be  stale." 

The  lady's  gane  to  her  chamber. 
And  a  moanfu'  woman  was  she ; 
As  gin  she  had  ta'en  a  sudden  brash, 
And  were  about  to  die. 

"  A  boon,  a  boon,  my  father  deir, 
A  boon  I  beg  of  thee ! "  — 
"  Ask  not  that  haughty  Scottish  lord, 
For  him  you  ne'er  shall  see : 

"But,  for  your  honest  asking  else, 
Weel  granted  it  shall  be."  — 
"Then  gin  I  die  in  Southern  land. 
In  Scotland  gar  bury  me. 

"  And  the  first  kirk  that  ye  come  to, 
Ye's  gar  the  mass  be  sung; 
And  the  next  kirk  that  ye  come  to, 
Ye's  gar  the  bells  be  rung. 

"  And  when  you  come  to  St.  Mary's 

kirk, 
Ye's  tarry  there  till  night." 
And  so  her  father  pledged  his  word. 
And  so  his  promise  plight. 

She  has  ta'en  her  to  her  bigly  bouer 
As  fast  as  she  could  fare ; 
And  she  has  drank  a  sleepy  draught, 
That  she  had  mixed  wi'  care. 


And  pale,  pale,  grew  her  rosy  cheek, 
That  was  sae  bright  of  blee. 
And  she  seemed  to  be  as  surely  dead 
As  any  one  could  be. 

Then  spake  her  cruel  step-minnie, 
"  Tak  ye  the  burning  lead. 
And  drap  a  drap  on  her  bosome. 
To  try  if  she  be  dead." 

They  took  a  drap  o'  boiling  lead, 
They  drapped  it  on  her  breast ; 
"  Alas !  alas ! "  her  father  cried. 
She's  dead  without  the  priest." 

She  neither  chattered  with  her  teeth, 
Nor  shivered  with  her  chin ; 
"  Alas !  alas ! "  her  father  cried, 
"There  is  nae  breath  within." 

Then  up  arose  her  seven  brethren. 
And  hewed  to  her  a  bier ; 
They  hewed  it  frae  the  solid  aik. 
Laid  it  o'er  wi'  silver  clear. 

Then  up  and  gat  her  seven  sisters, 
And  sewed  to  her  a  kell ; 
And  every  stitch  that  they  put  in 
Sewed  to  a  siller  bell. 

The  first  Scots  kirk  that  they  cam  to, 
They  garr'd  the  bells  be  rung; 
The  next  Scots  kirk  that  they  cam  to, 
They  garr'd  the  mass  be  sung. 

But  when  they  cam  to  St.  Mary's 

kirk, 
There  stude  spearmen  all  in  a  raw ; 
And  up  and  started  Lord  William, 
The  chief tane  amang  them  a'. 

"Set  down,  set  down  the  bier,"  he 

said, 
"  Let  me  look  her  upon : " 
But  as  soon  as  Lord  William  touched 

her  hand. 
Her  colour  began  to  come. 

She  brightened  like  the  lily  flower, 
Till  her  pale  colour  was  gone ; 
With  rosy  cheek,  and  ruby  lip. 
She  smiled  her  love  upon. 

"  A  morsel  of  your  bread,  my  lord, 

And  one  glass  of  your  wine ; 

For  I  hae  fasted  these  three  lang 

days. 
All  for  your  sake  and  mine.  — 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


363 


"Gae  hame,  gae  hame,  my  seven 

baiild  brothers, 
Gae  hame  and  blaw  your  horn ! 
I  trow  ye   wad  hae  gi'en    me  the 

skaith, 
But  I've  gi'en  you  the  scorn. 

''  Commend  me  to  my  grey  father, 
That  wished  my  saul  gude  rest ; 
But  vvae  to  my  cruel  step-dame, 
Garr'd  burn  me  on  the  breast." — 

"  Ah !  woe  to  you,  you  light  woman ! 
An  ill  death  may  ye  die ! 
For  we  left  father  and  sisters  at  hame 
Breaking  their  hearts  for  thee." 
Scott's  Border  Minstrelsy. 


ALLEN-A-DALE. 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for 
burning, 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turn- 
ing, 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the 
spinning, 

Yet  Allen-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the 
winning. 

Come,  read  me  my  riddle!  come, 
hearken  my  tale ! 

And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen- 
a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prances 

in  pride. 
And    he  views    his  domains    upon 

Arkindale  side. 
The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land 

for  his  game. 
The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park 

for  the  tame ; 
Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake,  and  the  deer 

of  the  vale, 
Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than 

Allen-a-Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a 
knight, 

Though  his  spur  be  as  sharp,  and  his 
blade  be  as  bright ; 

Allen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord. 

Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at 
his  word ; 

And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bon- 
net will  vail. 

Who  at  Rere-cross  on  Stamnore 
meets  Allen-a-Dale. 


Allen-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come ; 

The  mother,  she  asked  of  his  house- 
hold and  home : 

"  Though  the  castle  of  Richmond 
stand  fair  on  the  hill. 

My  hall,"  quoth  bold  Allen,  "shows 
gallanter  still ; 

'Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with 
its  crescent  so  pale. 

And  with  all  its  bright  spangles!" 
said  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother 

was  stone ; 
They  lifted  the  latch,  and  they  bade 

him  be  gone ; 
But  loud,  on  the  morrow,  their  wail 

and  their  cry: 
He  had  laughed  on  the  lass  with  his 

bonny  black  eye. 
And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a 

love-tale. 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was 

Allen-a-Dale ! 

Scott. 

GLENARA. 

O,  HEARD  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad 

in  the  gale. 
Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with 

weeping  and  wail  ? 
'Tis  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments 

for  his  dear ; 
And  her  sire  and    her  people    are 

called  to  her  bier. 

Glenara  came  first,  with  the  mourn- 
ers and  shroud ; 

Her  kinsmen  they  followed,  but 
mourned  not  aloud ; 

Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were 
folded  around ; 

They  marched  all  in  silence,  —  they 
looked  on  the  ground. 

In  silence  they  reached,  over  moun- 
tain and  moor, 

To  a  heath  where  the  oak-tree  grew 
lonely  and  hoar ; 

"  Now  here  let  us  place  the  gray 
stone  of  her  cairn ;  — 

Why  speak  ye  no  word  ?  "  said  Glen- 
ara the  stern. 

"  And  tell  me,  I  charge  ye,  ye  clan 

of  my  spouse. 
Why  fold    ye   your   mantles,    why 

cloud  ye  your  brows  ?  " 


364 


PARNASSUS. 


So  spake  the  rude  chieftain ;  no  an- 
swer is  made, 

But  each  mantle,  unfolding,  a  dagger 
displayed. 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of 

her  shroud," 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all 

wrathful  and  loud ; 
"And  empty  that  shroud  and  that 

coffin  did  seem ; 
Glenara !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my 

dream!" 

O,  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chief- 
tain, I  ween, 

When  the  shroud  was  unclosed  and 
no  lady  was  seen ; 

When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen 
spoke  louder  in  scorn,  — 

'Twas  the  youth  who  had  loved  the 
fair  Ellen  of  Lorn, 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of 
her  grief, 

I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbar- 
ous chief; 

On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did 
seem; 

Glenara !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my 
dream!" 

In  dust  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to 

the  ground, 
And  the  desert  revealed  where  his 

lady  was  found ; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty 

is  borne ; 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen 

of  Lorn. 

Campbell. 


FITZ  TRAYER'S  SONG. 

'Twas  All-soul's  eve,  and  Surrey's 
heart  beat  high ; 
He  heard  the  midnight  bell  with 
anxious  start. 
Which    told    the    mystic  hour,   ap- 
proaching nigh. 
When  wise  Cornelius  promised,  by 
his  art. 
To  show  to  him  the  ladye  of  his 
heart. 
Albeit  betwixt  them  roared   the 
ocean  grim ; 


Yet  so  the  sage  had  hight  to  play  his 

part, 
That  he  should  see  her  form  in 

life  and  limb, 
And  mark,  if  still  she  loved,  and  still 

she  thought  of  him. 

Dark  was  the  vaulted  room  of  gram- 
arye, 
To  which  the  wizard  led  the  gal- 
lant knight, 
Save  that  before  a  mirror,  huge  and 
high, 
A  hallowed  taper  shed  a  glimmer- 
ing light 
On    mystic    implements    of    magic 
might ; 
On  cross,  and  character,  and  talis- 
man, 
And    almagest,   and  altar,   nothing 
bright : 
For  fitful  was  the  lustre,  pale  and 
wan. 
As  watchlight  by  the  bed  of  some 
departing  man. 

But  soon,  within  that  mirror  huge 
and  high. 
Was   seen  a  self-emitted  light  to 
gleam ; 
And  forms  upon  its  breast  the  earl 
'gan  spy. 
Cloudy  and  indistinct,  as  feverish 
dream ; 
Till,   slow  arranging,  and    defined, 
they  seem 
To  form  a  lordly  and  a  lofty  room. 
Part  lighted  by  a  lamp  with  silver 
beam. 
Placed  by  a  couch  of  Agra's  silken 
loom, 
And  part  by  moonshine  pale,  and 
part  was  hid  in  gloom. 

Fair  all  the  pageant, — but  how  pass- 
ing fair 
The    slender  form  which   lay  on 
couch  of  Ind ! 
O'er  her  white  bosom  strayed  her 
hazel  hair. 
Pale  her  dear  cheek,  as  if  for  love 
she  pined ; 
All  in  her  night-robe  loose  she  lay 
reclined. 
And,   pensive,    read   from    tablet 
eburnine, 
Some  strain  that  seemed  her  inmost 
soul  to  find :  — 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


365 


That  favored  strain  was  Surrey's 
raptured  line, 
That  fair  and  lovely  form,  the  Lady 
Geraldine. 

Slow  rolled    the    clouds    upon    the 
lovely  form. 
And  swept  the  goodly  vision  all 
away ;  — 
So  royal  envy  rolled  the  murky  storm 
O'er  my  beloved  Master's  glorious 
day. 
Thou     jealous,      ruthless      tyrant! 
Heaven  repay 
On    thee,   and  on  thy  children's 
latest  line. 
The  wild   caprice    of    thy  despotic 
sway, 
The  gory  bridal  bed,  the  plundered 
shrine, 
The  murdered  Surrey's  blood,  the 
tears  of  Geraldine ! 

Scott. 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  YERE. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown : 
You    thought    to    break  a  country 
heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 
I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your 
name. 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 
Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I 
came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet 
sake 
A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love. 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 


Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 
You  put  strange  memories  in  my 
head. 
Not    thrice    your   branching    limes 
have  blown 
Since  I  beheld  young    Laurence 
dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 
When  thus  he  met  his  mother's 
view. 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 
She  spake  some  certain  truths  of 
you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Yere 
de  Yere. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door  : 
You  changed  a  wholesome  heart 
to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  re- 
morse, 
To    make    him  trust  his  modest 
worth. 
And,  last,  you  fixed  a  vacant  stare, 
And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 
From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us 

bent, 
The  gardener  Adam  and  his  wife 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 

Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 
'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 

Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets. 
And   simple  faith  than    Norman 
blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Yere  de  Yere ; 
You  pine  among  your  halls  and 
towers : 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless 
wealth. 
But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease. 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 
You  needs  must  play  such  pranks 
as  these. 


366 


PARNASSUS. 


Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew. 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  hmnan  heart. 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 

Tennyson. 


LADY    GERALDINE'S    COURT- 
SHIP. 

A  poet  writes  to  his  friend. — Place, 
a  room  in  Wycombe  Hall.  —  Time, 
late  in  the  evening. 

Dear  my  friend  and  fellow-student, 
I  would  lean  my  spirit  o'  er  you : 

Down  the  purple  of  this  chamber, 
tears  should  scarcely  run  at 
will: 

I  am  humbled  who  was  humble! 
Friend,  —  I  bow  my  head  be- 
fore you ! 

You  should  lead  me  to  my  peasants ! 
—  but  their  faces  are  too  still. 

There's  a  lady,  —  an  earl's  daughter ; 

she  is  proud  and  she  is  noble : 
And  she  treads  the  crimson  carpet, 

and  she  breathes  the  perfumed 

air; 
And  a  kingly  blood  sends  glances  up 

her  princely  eye  to  trouble. 
And  the    shadow  of    a    monarch's 

crown  is  softened  in  her  hair. 

She  has  halls  among  the  woodlands, 
slie  has  castles  by  the  breakers. 

She  has  farms  and  she  has  manors, 
she  can  threaten  and  com- 
mand, 

And  the  palpitating  engines  snort  in 
steam  across  her  acres, 

As  they  mark  upon  the  blasted  hea- 
ven the  measure  of  her  land. 

There  are  none  of  England's  daugh- 
ters who  can  show  a  prouder 
presence ; 

Upon  princely  suitors  praying,  she 
has  looked  in  her  disdain: 

She  has  sprung  of  English  nobles,  I 
was  born  of  P^nglish  peasants ; 

What  was  I  that  I  should  love  her,  — 
save  for  competence  to  pain ! 


I  was  only  a  poor  poet,  made  for 

singing  at  her  casement. 
As  the  finches  or  the  thrushes,  while 

she  thought  of  other  things. 
Oh,  she  walked  so  high  above  me, 

she  appeared  to  my  abasement, 
In  her  lovely  silken  murmur,  like  an 

angel  clad  in  wings ! 

Many  vassals  bow  before  her  as  her 
carriage  sweeps  their  door- 
ways ; 

She  has  blest  their  little  children,  — 
as  a  priest  or  queen  were  she. 

Ear  too  tender,  or  too  cruel  far,  her 
smile  upon  the  poor  was, 

For  I  thought  it  was  the  same  smile 
which  she  used  to  smile  on  me. 

She  has  voters  in  the  commons,  she 
has  lovers  in  the  palace,  — 

And  of  all  the  fair  court-ladies,  few 
have  jewels  half  as  fine : 

Oft  the  prince  has  named  her  beau- 
ty, 'twixt  the  red  wine  and 
the  chalice : 

Oh,  and  what  was  I  to  love  her  ?  my 
Beloved,  my  Geraldine ! 

Yet  I  could  not  choose  but  love  her, — 

I  was  born  to  poet  uses,  — 
To  love  all  things  set  above  me,  all 

of  good  and  all  of  fair : 
Nymphs  of  mountain,  not  of  valley, 

we  are  wont  to  call  the  Muses, 
And  in  nympholeptic  climbing,  poets 

pass  from  mount  to  star. 

And  because  I  was  a  poet,  and  be- 
cause the  people  praised  me. 

With  their  critical  deduction  for  the 
modern  writer's  fault; 

I  could  sit  at  rich  men's  tables,  — 
though  the  courtesies  that 
raised  me. 

Still  suggested  clear  between  us  the 
pale  spectrum  of  the  salt. 

And  they  praised  me  in  her  pres- 
ence:—  "Will  your  book  ap- 
pear this  summer?  " 

Then  returning  to  each  other,  "  Yes, 
our  plans  are  for  the  moors ;  '* 

Then  with  whisper  dropped  behind 
me,  —  "  There  he  is !  the  latest 
comer! 

Oh,  she  only  likes  his  verses  I  what 
is  over,  she  endures. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


367 


**  Quite  low  born !  self-educated ! 
somewhat  gifted  though,  by- 
nature,  — 

And  we  make  a  point  by  asking  him, 
of  being  very  kind ;  — 

You  may  speak,  he  does  not  hear 
you ;  and  besides,  he  writes  no 
satire,  — 

All  these  serpents  kept  by  charmers, 
leave  their  natural  sting  be- 
hind." 

I  grew  scornful ler,  grew  colder,  as  I 

stood  up  there  among  them. 
Till,  as  frost  intense  will  burn  you, 

the  cold  scorning  scorched  my 

brow ; 
When    a    sudden    silver    speaking, 

gravely    cadenced,    overrung 

them, 
And  a  sudden  silken  stirring  touched 

my  inner  nature  through. 

I  looked  upward  and  beheld  her! 

With    a    calm    and    regnant 

spirit. 
Slowly  round   she    swept    her  eye- 
lids,   and    said    clear   before 

them  all, 
"  Have  you  such  superfluous  honor, 

sir,  that  able  to  confer  it. 
You  will  come  down,  Mr.  Bertram, 

as    my    guest    to    Wycombe 

Hall  ?  " 

Here  she  paused,  —  she  had  been 
paler  at  the  first  word  of  her 
speaking ; 

But  because  a  silence  followed  it, 
blushed  somewhat  as  for 
shame ; 

Then,  as  scorning  her  own  feeling, 
resumed  calmly —  *'  I  am  seek- 
ing 

More  distinction  than  these  gentle- 
men think  worthy  of  my 
claim. 

*'  Nevertheless,  you  see,  I  seek  it  — 
not  because  I  am  a  woman," 

(Here  her  smile  sprang  like  a  foun- 
tain, and,  so  overflowed  her 
mouth,) 

''But  because  ray  woods  in  Sussex 
have  some  purple  shades  at 
gloaming 

Which  are  worthy  of  a  king  in  state, 
or  poet  in  his  youth. 


"  I  invite  you,  Mr.  Bertram,  to  no 

scene  for  worldly  speeches,  — 
Sir,  I  scarce  should  dare,  —  but  only 

where  God  asked  the  thrushes 

first, — 
And  if  you  will  sing  beside  them,  in 

the  covert  of  my  beeches, 
I  will  thank  you  for  the  woodlands, 

.  .  .  for  the  human  world  at 

worst." 

Then  she  smiled  around  right  child- 
ly, then  she  gazed  around 
right  queenly ; 

And  I  bowed,  —  I  could  not  answer ! 
Alternate  light  and  gloom,  — 

While  as  one  who  quells  the  lions, 
with  a  steady  eye  serenely. 

She,  with  level  fronting  eyelids, 
passed  out  stately  from  the 
room. 

Oh,  the  blessed  woods  of  Sussex,  I 

can  hear  them  still  around  me. 
With  their  leafy  tide   of    greenery 

still  rippling  up  the  wind ! 
Oh,   the  cursed   woods   of    Sussex! 

where    the    hunter's     arrow 

found  me, 
When  a  fair  face  and  a  tender  voice 

had  made  me  mad  and  blind ! 

In  that  ancient  hall  of  Wycombe, 
thronged  the  numerous  guests 
invited. 

And  the  lovely  London  ladies  trod 
the  floors  with  gliding  feet ; 

And  their  voices  low  with  fashion, 
not  with  feeling,  softly  freight- 
ed 

All  the  air  about  the  windows,  with 
elastic  laughters  sweet. 

For  at  eve,  the  open  windows  flung 

their  light  out  on  the  terrace, 
Which  the  floating  orbs  of  curtains 

did    with     gradual     shadow 

sweep : 
While  the  swans  upon  the  river,  fed 

at  morning  by  the  heiress, 
Trembled  downward  through  their 

snowy  wings  at  music  in  their 

sleep. 

And  there  evermore  was  music,  both 
of  instrument  and  singing; 

Till  the  finches  of  the  shrubberies 
grew  restless  in  the  dark ; 


368 


PARNASSUS. 


But  the  cedars  stood  up  motionless, 
each  in  a  moonliglit  ringing, 

And  the  deer,  half  in  the  glimmer, 
strewed  the  hollows  of  the 
park. 

And  though  sometimes  she  would 
bind  me  with  her  silver-cord- 
ed speeches, 

To  commix  my  words  and  laughter 
with  the  converse  and  the  jest. 

Oft  I  sat  apart,  and  gazing  on  the 
river  through  the  beeches. 

Heard,  as  pure  the  swans  swam 
down  it,  her  pure  voice  o'er- 
float  the  rest. 

In  the  morning,  horn  of  huntsman, 
hoof  of  steed,  and  laugh  of 
rider 

Spread  out  cheery  from  the  court- 
yard till  we  lost  them  in  the 
hills; 

While  herself  and  other  ladies,  and 
her  suitors  left  beside  her. 

Went  a-wandering  up  the  gardens 
through  the  laurels  and  abeles. 

Thus,  her  foot  upon  the  new-mown 
grass,  — bareheaded. — with  the 
Sowing 

Of  the  virginal  white  vesture  gath- 
ered closely  to  her  throat ; 

With  the  golden  ringlets  in  her  neck 
just  quickened  by  her  going, 

And  appearing  to  breathe  sun  for 
air,  and  doubting  if  to  float,  — 

With  a  branch  of  dewy  maple,  which 
her  right  hand  held  above  her. 

And  which  trembled  a  green  sha- 
dow in  betwixt  her  and  the 
skies. 

As  she  turned  her  face  in  going, 
thus,  she  drew  me  on  to  love 
her. 

And  to  worship  the  divineness  of 
the  smile  hid  in  her  eyes. 

For  her  eyes  alone  smile  constantly : 
her  lips  have  serious  sweetness. 

And  her  front  is  calm,  — the  dimple 
rarely  ripples  on  her  cheek : 

But  her  deep  blue  eyes  smile  con- 
stantly, —  as  if  they  in  discreet- 
ness 

Kept  the  secret  of  a  happy  dream 
she  did  not  care  to  speak. 


Thus  she  drew  me  the  first  morning, 

out  across  into  the  garden : 
And    I    walked    among    her    noble 

friends,   and  could  not  keep 

behind : 
Spake  she  unto  all  and  unto  me,  — 

"  Behold,  I  am  the  warden 
Of  the  song-birds  in  these  lindens, 

which  are  cages  to  their  mind. 

"But  within  this  swarded  circle, 
into  which  the  lime-walk 
brings  us,  — 

Whence  the  beeches  rounded  green- 
ly, stand  away  in  reverent 
fear ; 

I  will  let  no  music  enter,  saving 
what  the  fountain  sings  us. 

Which  the  lilies  round  the  basin 
may  seem  pure  enough  to  hear. 

"The  live  air  that  waves  the  lilies 
waves  this  slender  jet  of  water, 

Like  a  holy  thought  sent  feebly  up 
from  soul  of  fasting  saint! 

Whereby  lies  a  marble  Silence,  sleep- 
ing! (Lough  the  sculptor 
wrought  her, ) 

So  asleep  she  is  forgetting  to  say 
Hush !  —  a  fancy  quaint ! 

"Mark  how  heavy  white  her  eye- 
lids !  not  a  dream  between 
them  lingers ! 

And  the  left  hand's  index  droppeth 
from  the  lips  upon  the  cheek : 

And  the  right  hand,  —  with  the  sym- 
bol rose  held  slack  within  the 
fingers,  — 

Has  fallen  back  within  the  basin,  — 
yet  this  Silence  will  not  speak ! 

"  That  the  essential  meaning  grow- 
ing may  exceed  the  special 
symbol. 

Is  the  thought  as  I  conceive  it:  it 
applies  more  high  and  low. 

Our  true  noblemen  will  often  through 
right  nobleness  grow  humble. 

And  assert  an  inward  honor  by  de- 
nying outward  show." 

"Nay,  your  Silence,"  said  I,  "truly 
holds  her  symbol  rose  but 
slackly. 

Yet  she  holds  it  —  or  would  scarcely 
be  a  Silence  to  our  ken ! 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


369 


And  your  nobles  wear  their  ermine 
on  the  outside,  or  walk  blackly 

In  the  presence  of  the  social  law,  as 
most  ignoble  men. 

"  Let  the  poets  dream  such  dream- 
ing !  Madam,  in  these  British 
Islands, 

'Tis  the  substance  that  wanes  ever, 
'tis  the  symbol  that  exceeds ; 

Soon  we  shall  have  nought  but  sym- 
bol! and  for  statues  like  this 
Silence, 

Shall  accept  the  rose's  image, — in 
another  case,  the  weed's." 

"Not  so  quickly!"  she  retorted, — 
"  I  confess  where'er  you  go, you 

Find  for  things,  names ;  —  shows  for 
actions,  and  pure  gold  for 
honor  clear ; 

But  when  all  is  run  to  symbol  in  the 
Social,  I  will  throw  you 

The  world's  book  which  now  reads 
dryly,  and  sit  down  with  Si- 
lence here." 

Half  in  playfulness  she  spoke,  I 
thought,  and  half  in  indigna- 
tion; 

Friends  who  listened  laughed  her 
words  off  while  her  lovers 
deemed  her  fair ; 

A  fair  woman  —  flushed  with  feeling, 
in  her  noble-lighted  station 

Near  the  statue's  white  reposing, — 
and  both  bathed  in  sunny  air ! 

With  the  trees  round,  not  so  distant 

but   you    heard    their  vernal 

murmur. 
And  beheld  in  light  and  shadow  the 

leaves  in  and  outward  move ; 
And    the     little    fountain     leaping 

toward  the    sun-heart    to  be 

warmer, 
And  recoiling  in  a  tremble  from  the 

too  much  light  above. 

'Tis  a  picture  for  remembrance !  and 

thus,  morning  after  morning. 
Did  I  follow  as  she  drew  me  by  the 

spirit  to  her  feet,  — 
Why,  her  greyhound  followed  also ! 

dogs  —  we  both  were  dogs  for 

scorning,  — 
To  be  sent  back  when  she  pleased  it, 

and  her  path  lay  through  the 

wheat. 

24 


And  thus,  morning  after  morning, 
spite  of  vows  and  spite  of  sor- 
row. 

Did  I  follow  at  her  drawing,  while 
the  week-days  passed  along ; 

Just  to  feed  the  swans  this  noontide, 
or  to  see  the  fawns  to-morrow, 

Or  to  teach  the  hill-side  echo  some 
sweet  Tuscan  in  a  song. 

Ay,  for  sometimes  on  the  hill-side, 

while    we    sat    down    in    the 

gowans. 
With   the  forest  green  behind   us, 

and  its  shadow  cast  before ; 
And  the  river  running  under;  and 

across  it  from  the  rowans 
A  brown  partridge  whirring  near  us, 

till  we  felt  the  air  it  bore,  7— 

There,  obedient  to  her  praying,  did 
I  read  aloud  the  poems 

Made  by  Tuscan  flutes,  or  instru- 
ments more  various  of  our 
own; 

Read  the  pastoral  parts  of  Spenser,  — 
or  the  subtle  interflowings 

Found  in  Petrarch's  sonnets, — here's 
the  book  —  the  leaf  is  folded 
down !  — 

Or  at  times  a  modern  volume,  — 
Wordsworth's  solemn- 
thoughted  idyl. 

Ho  Witt's  ballad-verse,  or  Tennyson's 
enchanted  revery,  — 

Or  from  Browning  some  "Pome- 
granate," which,  if  cut  deep 
down  the  middle. 

Shows  a  heart  within  blood-tinc- 
tured, of  a  veined  humanity. 

Or  at  times  I  read  there,  hoarsely, 
some  new  poem  of  my  mak- 
ing, — 

Poets  ever  fail  in  reading  their  own 
verses  to  their  worth,  — 

For  the  echo  in  you  breaks  upon  the 
words  which  you  are  speaking. 

And  the  chariot-wheels  jar  in  the 
gate  through  which  you  drive 
them  forth. 

After,  when  we  were  grown  tired  of 
books,  the  silence  round  us 
flinging 

A  slow  arm  of  sweet  compression, 
felt  with  beatings  at  the  breast, 


370 


PARNASSUS. 


She  would  break  out  on  a  sudden, 
in  a  gush  of  woodland  singing, 

Like  a  child's  emotion  in  a  god,  —  a 
naiad  tired  of  rest. 

Oh,  to  see  or  hear  her  singing !  scarce 
I  know  which  is  divinest,  — 

For  her  looks  sing  too,  — she  modu- 
lates her  gestures  on  the  tune; 

And  her  mouth  stirs  with  the  song, 
like  song ;  and  when  the  notes 
are  finest, 

'Tis  the  eyes  that  shoot  out  vocal 
light,  and  seem  to  swell  them 
on. 

Then  we  talked, —  oh,  how  we  talked ! 
her  voice,  so  cadenced  in  tlie 
talking, 

Made  another  singing  —  of  the  soul ! 
a  music  without  bars,  — 

While  the  leafy  sounds  of  wood- 
lands, humming  round  where 
we  were  walking. 

Brought  interposition  worthy  sweet, 

—  as  skies  about  the  stars. 

And  she  spake  such  good  thoughts 

natural,     as     if    she    always 

thought  them,  — 
And  had  sympathies  so  rapid,  open, 

free  as  bird  on  branch, 
Just  as  ready  to  fly  east  as  west, 

whichever  way  besought  them. 
In  the  birchen  wood  a  chirrup,  or  a 

cock-crow  in  the  grange. 

In  her  utmost  rightness  there  is  truth, 

—  and  often  she  speaks  lightly. 
Has  a  grace  in  being  gay,  which  even 

mournful  souls  approve. 
For  the  root  of  some  grave  earnest 

thought    is    under-struck    so 

rightly. 
As   to  justify  the  foliage  and    the 

waving  flowers  above. 

And  she  talked  on,  —  we  talked,  rath- 
er! upon  all  things — sub- 
stance —  shadow  — 

Of  the  sheep  that  browsed  the 
grasses,  — of  the  reapers  in  the 
corn, — 

Of  the  little  children  from  the 
schools,  seen  winding  through 
the  meadow,  — 

Of  the  poor  rich  world  beyond  them, 
still  kept  poorer  by  its  scorn. 


So  of  men,  and  so  of  letters,  — books 

are  men  of  higher  stature. 
And  the  only  men  that  speak  aloud 

for  future  times  to  hear : 
So,  of  mankind  in  the  abstract,  which 

grows  slowly  into  nature, 
Yet  will  lift  the  cry  of  "  progress,"  as 

it  trod  from  sphere  to  sphere. 

And  her  custom  was  to  praise  me 
when  I  said, —  "  The  Age  culls 
simples. 

With  a  broad  clown's  back  turned 
broadly  to  the  glory  of  the 
stars  — 

We  are  gods  by  our  own  reck'ning,  — 
and  may  well  shut  up  the 
temples. 

And  wield  on,  amid  the  incense- 
steam,  the  thunder  of  our  cars. 

*'  For  we  throw  out  acclamations  of 

self-thanking,  self-admiring. 
With,   at  every  mile  run  faster,  — 

'  O    the  wondrous,  wondrous 

age ! ' 
Little  thinking  if  we  work  our  souls 

as  nobly  as  our  iron, 
Or  if  angels  will  commend  us  at  the 

goal  of  pilgrimage. 

"  Why,  what  is  this  patient  entrance 
into  nature's  deep  resources. 

But  the  child's  most  gradual  learn- 
ing to  walk  upright  without 
bane  ? 

When  we  drive  out  from  the  cloud 
of  steam,  majestical  white 
horses. 

Are  we  greater  than  the  first  men 
who  led  black  ones  by  the 
mane? 

"If  we  trod  the  deeps  of  ocean,  if 
we  struck  the  stars  in  rising, 

If  we  wrapped  the  globe  intensely 
with  one  hot  electric  breath, 

'Twere  but  power  within  our  tether, — 
no  new  spirit-power  compris- 
ing, 

And  in  life  we  were  not  greater  men, 
nor  bolder  men  in  death." 

She  was  patient  with  my  talking; 

and  I    loved    her,   loved  her 

certes. 
As    I    loved    all   Heavenly  objects, 

with  uplifted  eyes  and  hands  i 


KAREATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


^71 


As  I  loved  pure  inspirations,  — loved 
the  graces,  loved  the  virtues, 

In  a  Love  content  with  writing  his 
own  name  on  desert  sands. 

Or  at  least  I  thought  so  purely!  — 
thought  no  idiot  Hope  was 
raising 

Any  crown  to  crown  Love's  silence, — 
silent  Love  that  sat  alone,  — 

Out,  alas!  the  stag  is  like  me,  — he, 
that  tries  to  go  on  grazing 

With  the  great  deep  gun-wound  in 
his  neck,  then  reels  with  sud- 
den moan. 

It  was  thus  I  reeled  !  I  told  you  that 
her  hand  had  many  suitors  — 

But  she  smiles  them  down  imperial- 
ly, as  Venus  did  the  waves ;  — 

And  with  such  a  gracious  coldness, 
that  they  cannot  press  their 
futures 

On  the  present  of  her  courtesy, 
which  yieldingly  enslaves. 

And  this  morning,  as  I  sat  alone 

within  the  inner  chamber. 
With  the  great  saloon  beyond  it  lost 

in  pleasant  thought  serene,  — 
For  I  had  been  reading  Camoens  — 

that  poem  you  remember, 
WTiich  his  lady's  eyes  are  praised  in, 

as  the  sweetest  ever  seen ; 

And  the  book    lay  open,   and    my 

thought  flew  from  it,  taking 

from  it 
A  vibration  and  impulsion  to  an  end 

beyond  its  own. 
As  the  branch  of  a  green  osier,  when 

a  child  would  overcome  it. 
Springs  up  freely  from  his  clasping 

and  goes  swinging  in  the  sun. 

As  I  mused  I  heard  a  murmur,  —  it 

grew  deep  as  it  grew  longer — 
Speakers  using  earnest  language,  — 

*'  Lady  Geraldine,  you  would! " 
And  I  heard  a  voice  that  pleaded 

ever  on,  in  accents  stronger, 
As  a  sense  of  reason  gave  it  power 

to  make  its  rhetoric  good. 

Well  I  knew  that  voice,  —  it  was  an 
earl's,  of  soul  that  matched 
his  station  — 

Soul  completed  into  lordship, — might 
and  right  read  on  his  brow : 


Very  finely  courteous, — far  too  proud 
to  doubt  his  domination 

Of  the  common  people,  —  he  atones 
for  grandeur  by  a  bow. 

High,  straight  forehead,  nose  of 
eagle,  cold  blue  eyes,  of  less 
expression 

Than  resistance,  coldly  casting  off 
the  looks  of  other  men. 

As  steel,  arrows, — unelastic  lips, 
which  seem  to  taste  posses- 
sion. 

And  be  cautious  lest  the  common 
air  should  injure  or  distrain. 

For  the  rest,  accomplished,  upright, — 

ay,  and  standing  by  his  order 
With  a  bearing  not  ungraceful ;  fond 

of  art,  and  letters  too ; 
Just  a  good  man  made  a  proud  man, 

as  the  sandy  rocks  that  border 
A  wild  coast,  by  circumstances,  in  a 

regnant  ebb  and  flow. 

Thus  I  knew  that  voice, — I  heard 
it  —  and  I  could  not  help  the 
hearkening : 

In  the  room  I  stood  up  blindly,  and 
my  burning  heart  within 

Seemed  to  seethe  and  fuse  my  senses, 
till  they  ran  on  all  sides  dark- 
ening. 

And  scorclied,  weighed  like  melted 
metal  round  my  feet  that  stood 
therein. 

And  that  voice,  I  heard  it  pleading, 

for  love's  sake, — for  wealth, 

position, 
For  the   sake  of   liberal  uses,   and 

great  actions  to  be  done,  — 
And  she  interrupted  gently,  "  Nay, 

my  lord,  the  old  tradition 
Of  your  Normans,  by  some  worthier 

hand  than  mine  is,  should  be 

won." 

"Ah,  that  white    hand,"   he    said 

quickly,  —  and  in  his  he  either 

drew  it 
Or  attempted  —  for  with  gravity  and 

instance  she  replied,  — 
"Nay,  indeed,  my  lord,  this  talk  is 

vain,  and  we  had  best  eschew 

it. 
And  pass  on  like  friends,  to  other 

points  less  easy  to  decide." 


372 


PAENASSUS. 


What  he  said  again,  I  know  not.    It 

is  likely  that  his  trouble 
Worked  his  pride  up  to  the  surface, 

for    she     answered     in    slow 

scorn, — 
"And  your  lordship  judges  rightly. 

Whom  I  marry,  shall  be  noble, 
Ay,  and  wealthy.     I  shall  never  blush 

to  think  how  he  was  born." 

There,  I  maddened !  her  words  stung 

me!    Life  swept  through  me 

into  fever, 
And  my  soul  sprang  up  astonished ; 

sprang  f  ull-statured  in  an  hour : 
Know  you  what  it  is  when  anguish, 

with  apocalyptic  never, 
To  a  Pythian  height  dilates  you,  — 

and  despair  sublimes  to  power  ? 

From  my  brain  the  soul-wings  bud- 
ded!—  waved  a  flame  about 
my  body. 

Whence  conventions  coiled  to  ashes : 
I  felt  self-drawn  out,  as  man. 

From  amalgamate  false  natures;  and 
I  saw  the  skies  grow  ruddy 

With  the  deepening  feet  of  angels, 
and  I  knew  what  spirits  can. 

I  was  mad,  —  inspired,  —  say  either ! 

anguish  worketh  inspiration, — 
Was  a  man  or  beast  —  perhaps  so ;  for 

the  tiger  roars  when  speared ; 
And  I  walked  on,  step  by  step,  along 

the  level  of  my  passion  — 
Oh  my  soul  I  and  passed  the  doorway 

to  her  face,  and  never  feared. 

JBe   had    left    her,  —  peradventure, 

when  my  footstep  proved  my 

coming,  — 
But  for  her,  —  she  half  arose,  then  sat 

—  grew  scarlet  and  grew  pale: 
Oh  she  trembled!  —  'tis  so  always 

with  a  worldly  man  or  woman 
In  the  presence  of  true  spirits, —  what 

else  can  they  do  but  quail  ? 

Oh,  she  fluttered  like  a  tame  bird,  in 
among  its  forest  brothers 

Far  too  strong  for  it !  then  drooping, 
bowed  her  face  upon  her 
hands,  — 

And  I  spake  out  wildly,  fiercely,  bru- 
tal truths  of  her  and  others ! 

If  she  planted  in  the  desert,  swathed 
her,  windlike,  with  my  sands. 


I  plucked  up  her  social  fictions, 
bloody-rooted  though  leaf -ver- 
dant. 

Trod  them  down  with  words  of 
shaming,  —  all  the  purple  and 
the  gold. 

All  the  "landed  stakes"  and  lord- 
ships,—  all  that  spirits  pure 
and  ardent 

Are  cast  out  of  love  and  honor  be- 
cause chancing  not  to  hold. 

"For  myself  I  do  not  argue,"  said  I, 

"  though  I  love  you,  madam ; 
But  for  better  souls  that  nearer  to 

the  height  of  yours  have  trod. 
And  this  age  shows  to  my  thinking, 

still  more  infidels  to  Adam, 
Than  directly,  by  profession,  simple 

infidels  to  God. 

"  Yet,  O  God,"  I  said,  "  O  grave,"  I 
said,  "  O  mother's  heart  and 
bosom. 

With  whom  first  and  last  are  equal, 
saint  and  corpse  and  little 
child ! 

We  are  fools  to  your  deductions,  in 
these  figments  of  heart-clos- 
ing! 

We  are  traitors  to  your  causes,  in 
these  sympathies  defiled ! 

"Learn  more  reverence,  madam,  not 

for    rank     or    wealth,  —  that 

needs  no  learning; 
That  comes  quickly  —  quick  as  sin 

does,   ay,  and  culminates    to 

sin; 
But  for  Adam's  seed,  man!    Trust 

me,  'tis    a   clay  above   your 

scorning. 
With  God's  image  stamped  upon  it, 

and    God's    kindling    breath 

within. 

"  What  right  have  you,  madam,  gaz- 
ing in  your  palace-mirror 
daily. 

Getting  so  by  heart  your  beauty, 
w^hich  all  others  must  adore. 

While  you  draw  the  golden  ringlets 
down  your  fingers,  to  vow 
gayly 

You  will  wed  no  man  that's  only 
good  to  God,  —  and  nothing 
more? 


NAKRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALUU3S. 


373 


"  Why,  what  right  have  you,  made 
fair  by  that  same  God, — the 
sweetest  woman 

Of  all  women  He  has  fashioned,  — 
with  your  lovely  spirit-face, 

Which  would  seem  too  near  to  van- 
ish if  its  smile  were  not  so 
human. 

And  your  voice  of  holy  sweetness, 
turning  common  words  to 
grace, 

"What  right  can  you  have,  God's 
other  works  to  scorn,  despise, 
revile  them 

In  the  gross,  as  mere  men,  broadly, 
—  not  as  noble  men,  for- 
sooth, — 

As  mere  Pariahs  of  the  outer  world, 
forbidden  to  assoil  them 

In  the  hope  of  living,  dying,  near 
that  sweetness  of  your  mouth  ? 

"  Have  you  any  answer,  madam  ?   If 

my  spirit  were  less  earthly. 
If  its  instrument  were  gifted  with  a 

better  silver  string, 
I  would  kneel  down  where  I  stand, 

and  say,  —  Behold  me !   I  am 

worthy 
Of  thy  loving,  for  I  love  thee !    I  am 

worthy  as  a  king. 

"As  it  is, — your  ermined  pride,  I 
swear,  shall  feel  this  stain 
upon  her,  — 

That  I,  poor,  weak,  tost  with  pas- 
sion, scorned  by  me  and  you 
again. 

Love  you.  Madam,  —  dare  to  love 
you, — to  my  grief  and  your 
dishonor,  — 

To  my  endless  desolation,  and  your 
impotent  disdain ! " 

More  mad  words  like  these,  —  more 

madness!  friend,  I  need  not 

write  them  fuller ; 
And  I  hear  my  hot  soul  dropping 

on    the    lines  in   showers   of 

tears  — 
Oh,   a  woman!   friend,  a   woman! 

Why,  a  beast  had  scarce  been 

duller 
Than  roar  bestial  loud   complaints 

against    the    shining    of    the 

spheres. 


But  at  last  there  came  a  pause.  I 
stood  all  vibrating  with  thun- 
der 

Which  my  soul  had  used.  The 
silence  drew  her  face  up  like 
a  call. 

Could  you  guess  what  word  she 
uttered  ?  She  looked  up,  as  if 
in  wonder. 

With  tears  beaded  on  her  lashes,  and 
said  "  Bertram ! "  it  was  all. 

If  she  had  cursed  me,  —  and  she 
might  have,  —  or  if  even,  with 
queenly  bearing 

Wliich  at  needs  is  used  by  women, 
she  had  risen  up  and  said, 

"  Sir,  you  are  my  guest,  and  therefore 
I  have  given  you  a  full  hear- 
ing,— 

Now,  beseech  you,  choose  a  name 
exacting  somewhat  less  in- 
stead," — 

I  had  borne  it ! — but  that  "Bertram  " 
— why  it  lies  there  on  the 
paper, 

A  mere  word,  without  her  accent,  — 
and  you  cannot  judge  the 
weight 

Of  the  calm  which  crushed  my  pas- 
sion! I  seemed  drowning  in 
a  vapor,  — 

And  her  gentleness  destroyed  me 
whom  her  scorn  made  deso- 
late. 

So,  struck  backward  and  exhausted 
by  that  inward  flow  of  passion 

Which  had  rushed  on,  sparing  noth- 
ing, into  forms  of  abstract 
truth. 

With  a  logic  agonizing  through  un- 
seemly demonstration. 

And  with  youth's  own  anguish  turn- 
ing grimly  gray  the  hairs  of 
youth,  — 

By  the  sense  accursed  and  instant, 

that  if  even  I  spake  wisely, 
I  spake  basely, — using  truth,  —  if 

what    I    spake    indeed    was 

true,  — 
To  avenge  wrong  on  a  woman,  —  her, 

who  sat  there  weighing  nicely 
A    full     manhood's    worth,    found 

guilty  of  such  deeds  as  I  could 

do!  — 


874 


PABNASSUS. 


With  such  wrong  and  woe  exhausted 
—  what  I  suffered  and  occa- 
sioned, — 

As  a  wild  horse  through  a  city  runs 
with  lightning  in  his  eyes, 

And  then  dashing  at  a  church's  cold 
and  passive  wall,  impassioned. 

Strikes  the  death  into  his  burning 
brain,  and  blindly  drops  and 
dies, — 

So  I  fell,  struck  down  before  her! 

Do  you  blame  me  friend,  for 

weakness  ? 
'Twas  my  strength  of  passion  slew 

me!  —  fell   before  her   like  a 

stone ; 
Fast  the  dreadful  world  rolled  from 

me,  on  its  roaring  wheels  of 

blackness ! 
When  the  light  came  I  was  lying  in 

this  chamber  —  and  alone. 

Oh,  of  course,  she  charged  her  lack- 
eys to  bear  out  the  sickly 
burden. 

And  to  cast  it  from  her  scornful 
sight,  —  but  not  beyond  the 
gate  — 

She  was  too  kind  to  be  cruel,  and  too 
haughty  not  to  pardon 

Such  a  man  as  I,  —  'twere  something 
to  be  level  to  her  hate. 

But  for  me,  —  you  now  are  conscious 
why,  my  friend,  I  write  this 
letter. 

How  my  life  is  read  all  backward, 
and  the  charm  of  life  undone ! 

I  shall  leave  her  house  at  dawn ;  —  I 
would  to-night,  if  I  were  bet- 
ter ;  — 

And  I  charge  my  soul  to  hold  my 
body  strengthened  for  the  sun. 

When  the  sun  has  dyed  the  oriel,  I 

depart  with  no  last  gazes, 
No  weak  moanings  —  one  word  only 

left  in  writing  for  her  hands, 
Out  of  reach  of  all  derision,  and  some 

unavailing  praises, 
To  make  front  against  this  anguish 

in  the  far  and  foreign  lands. 

Blame  me  not,  I  would  not  squander 
life  in  grief ; — I  am  abstemious : 

I  but  nurse  my  spirit's  falcon,  that 
its.  wings  may  soar  again : 


There's  no  room  for  tears  of  weak- 
ness in  the  blind  eyes  of  a 
Phemius : 

Into  work  the  poet  kneads  them,  — 
and  he  does  not  die  till  then. 

CONCLUSION. 

Bertram    finished    the    last    pages, 

while  along  the  silence  ever 
Still  in  hot  and  heavy  splashes,  fell 

the  tears  on  every  leaf : 
Having  ended,  he  leans  backward  in 

his  chair,  with  lips  that  quiver 
From  the  deep  unspoken,  ay,  and  deep 

unwritten  thoughts  of  grief. 

Soh!  how  still  the  ladystandeth!  'tis 
a  dream !  —  a  dream  of  mer- 
cies! 

'Twixt  the  purple  lattice-curtains, 
how  she  standeth  still  and 
pale! 

'Tis  a  vision,  sure,  of  mercies,  sent 
to  soften  his  self -curses  — 

Sent  to  sweep  a  patient  quiet  o'er 
the  tossing  of  his  wail. 

"Eyes,"  he  said,  "now  throbbing 
through  me !  are  ye  eyes  that 
did  undo  me  ? 

Shining  eyes,  like  antique  jewels  set 
in  Parian  statue-stone ! 

Underneath  that  calm  white  fore- 
head, are  ye  ever  burning 
torrid 

O'er  the  desolate  sand-desert  of  my 
heart  and  life  undone?  " 

With  a  murmurous  stir  uncertain,  in 
the  air,  the  purple  curtain 

Swelleth  in  and  swelleth  out  around 
her  motionless  pale  brows ; 

While  the  gliding  of  the  river  sends 
a  rippling  noise  forever 

Through  the  open  casement  whitened 
by  the  moonlight's  slant  re- 
pose. 

Said  he —  "  Vision  of  a  lady!  stand 
there  silent,  stand  there  steady ! 

Now  I  see  it  plainly,  plainly;  now  I 
cannot  hope  or  doubt  — 

There,  the  brows  of  mild  repression, 
—  there,  the  lips  of  silent  pas- 
sion. 

Curved  like  an  archer's  bow  to  send 
the  bitter  arrows  out." 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


375 


Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow 

silence  she  kept  smiling, 
And  approached  him  slowly,  slowly, 

in  a  gliding  measured  pace ; 
With  her  two  white  hands  extended, 

as  if  praying  one  offended. 
And  a  look  of  supplication,  gazing 

earnest  in  his  face. 

Said  he,  —  "  Wake  me  by  no  gesture, 
—  sound  of  breath,  or  stir  of 
vesture ; 

Let  the  blessed  apparition  melt  not 
yet  to  its  divine  ! 

No  approaching,  — hush !  no  breath- 
ing !  or  my  heart  must  swoon 
to  deatli  in 

That  too  utter  life  thou  bringest  — 
O  thou  dream  of  Geraldine ! " 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow 

silence  she  kept  smiling  — 
But  the  tears  ran  over  liglitly  from 

her  eyes,  and  tenderly ; 
"  Dost  thou,  Bertram,  truly  love  me  ? 

Is  no  woman  far  above  me 
Found  more  wortliy  of  thy  poet-heart 

than  such  a  one  as  1 1* " 

Said  he  —  "I  would  dream  so  ever, 
like  the  flowing  of  that  river. 

Flowing  ever  in  a  shadow  greenly 
onward  to  the  sea ; 

So,  thou  vision  of  all  sweetness  — 
princely  to  a  full  complete- 
ness, — 

Would  my  heart  and  life  flow  on- 
ward —  death  ward  —  through 
this  dream  of  Thee  ! " 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  slow 

silence  she  kept  smiling. 
While  the  silver  tears  ran  faster  down 

the  blushing  of  her  cheeks ; 
Then  with  both  her  hands  enfolding 

both  of  his,  she  softly  told  him, 
"Bertram,  if  I  say  I  love  thee,  .  .  . 

'tis  the  vision  only  speaks." 

Softened,  quickened  to  adore  her,  on 

his  knee  he  fell  before  her,  — 
And  she  whispered  low  in  triumph, 

—  "  It  shall  be  as  I  have  sworn ! 
Very  rich  he  is  in  virtues,  —  very 

noble  —  noble,  certes; 
And  I  shall  not  blush  in  knowing 

that  men  call  him  lowly  born ! " 
E.  B.  Browning. 


CENONE,  OR  THE    CHOICE  OF 
PARIS. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I 

die. 
He    smiled,   and    opening    out    his 

milk-white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  true  Hesperian 

gold, 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I 

looked 
And  listened,  the  full-flowing  river 

of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  'My  own  CEnone, 
Beautiful-browed  CEnone,  my  own 

soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming 

rind  ingraven 
"  For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to 

award  it  thine. 
As    lovelier  than    whatever    Oread 

haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of    movement,   and  the  charm    of 

married  brows.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I 

die. 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to 

mine. 
And  added,  *  This  was  cast  upon  the 

board. 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of 

the  Gods 
Ranged    in    the    halls    of    Peleus; 

whereupon 
Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom 

'twere  due: 
But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester- 

eve, 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common 

voice. 
Elected  umpire.  Here  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within 

the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest 

pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld, 

unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of 

Gods.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I 
die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon :  one  silvery 
cloud 


376 


PARNASSUS. 


Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney 

sides 
Of    this   long    glen.     Then    to    the 

bower  they  came, 
Naked  they  came  to   that  smooth- 
swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake 

like  fire, 
Violet,  amaraciis,  and  asphodel. 
Lotos  and  lilies :  and  a  wind  arose, 
And    overhead   the  wandering  ivy 

and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild 

festoon 
Ran    riot,   garlanding    the    gnarled 

boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower 

through  and  through._ 

"  O  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit. 
And  o'er  him  flowed  a  golden  cloud, 

and  leaned 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant 

dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her, 

to  whom 
Coming  through  Heaven,  like  a  light 

that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind 

the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.    She  to  Paris 

made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestioned,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state, '  from 

many  a  vale 
And      river-sundered       champaign 

clothed  with  corn. 
Or  labored  mines  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,  '  and  homage,  tax 

and  toll, 
From  many  an    inland    town    and 

haven  large, 
Mast-thronged  beneath  her  shadow- 
ing citadel 
In  glassy  bays    among    her  tallest 

towers.' 

*'  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 

Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake 
of  power, 

'  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 

Power  fitted  to  the  season ;  wisdom- 
bred 

And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all 
neighbor  crowns 

Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 


Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.  Such 
boon  from  me. 

From  me,  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris, 
to  thee  king-born, 

A  shepherd  all  thy  life,  but  yet  king- 
born. 

Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing 
men,  in  power. 

Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  at- 
tained 

Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 

Above  the  thunder,  with  undying 
bliss 

In  knowledge  of  their  own  suprem- 
acy.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 

She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly 
fruit 

Out  at  arm's-length,  so  much  the 
thought  of  power 

Flattered  his  spirit ;  but  Pallas  where 
she  stood 

Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared 
limbs 

O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen- 
headed  spear 

Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning 
cold. 

The  while,  above,  her  full  and  ear- 
nest eye 

Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry 
cheek 

Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made 
reply. 

"  'Self-reverence,  self-knowledge, 
self-control. 

These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sover- 
eign power. 

Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 

Would  come  uncalled  for),  but  to 
live  by  law, 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without 
fear ; 

And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow 
right 

Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  conse- 
quence.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I 

die. 
Again  she  said :   *  I  woo  thee  not 

with  gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what 

I  am. 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


377 


Yet,  indeed, 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge 

of  fair, 
Unbiased    by    self-profit,    oh!    rest 

thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave 

to  thee. 
So  that  my  vigor,   wedded  to  thy 

blood. 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a 

God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  through  a  life 

of  shocks. 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance 

grow 
Sinewed  with  action,  and  the  full- 
grown  will. 
Circled  through  all  experiences,  pure 

law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.' 

"  Here  she  ceased. 
And  Paris  pondered,  and  I  cried, '  O 

Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas ! '  but  he  heard  me 

not. 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe 

is  me ! 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountained 

Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 
Fresh   as   the  foam,  new-bathed  in 

Paphian  wells. 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward 

drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom 

her  deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid 

throat 
And  shoulder :  from  the  violets  her 

light  foot 
Shone     rosy-white,    and    o'er    her 

rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine- 
bunches 
Floated  the   glowing    sunlights,   as 

she  moved. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I 

die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild 

eyes,  ■ 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing 

nigh 
Half-whispered  in  his  ear,  '  I  promise 

thee 


The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in 

Greece,' 
She  spoke  and  laughed :  I  shut  my 

sight  for  fear : 
But  when  I  looked,  Paris  had  raised 

his  arm. 
And  I  beheld  great  Here's   angry 

eyes. 
As  she  withdrew  into    the  golden 

cloud. 
And  I  was   left  alone  within    the 

bower. 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am 

alone. 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die." 


Tennyson. 

THE  ISLAND. 

How    pleasant  were    the  songs  of 

Toobonai, 
When  summer's  sun  went  down  the 

coral  bay ! 
Come  let  us   to  the  islet's    softest 

shade. 
And  hear  the  warbling  birds!  the 

damsels  said : 
The     wood-dove     from    the    forest 

depth  shall  coo. 
Like  voices  of  the  gods  from  Bolo- 

too; 
We'll  cull   the    flowers    that    grow 

above  the  dead, 
For  these  most  bloom  where  rests 

the  warrior's  head; 
And  we  will  sit  in  twilight's  face, 

and  see 
The  sweet  moon  dancing  through 

the  tooa-tree. 
The  lofty  accents  of  whose  sighing 

bough 
Shall  sadly  please  us  as  we  lean  be- 
low; 
Or  climb  the  steep,  and  view  the 

surf  in  vain 
Wrestle  with  rocky  giants  o'er  the 

main. 
Which  spurn  in  columns  back  the 

baffled  spray. 
How  beautiful  are  these,  how  happy 

they. 
Who,  from  the  toil  and  tumult  of 

their  lives, 
Steal  to  look  down  where  nought 

but  ocean  strives  I 


378 


PARNASSUS. 


Even  he  too  loves  at  times  the  blue 
lagoon, 

And  smooths  his  ruffled  mane  be- 
neath the  moon. 

Yes  —  from  the  sepulchre  we'll  gath- 
er flowers. 

Then  feast  like  spirits  in  their 
promised  bowers, 

Then  plunge  and  revel  in  the  rolling 
surf, 

Then  lay  our  limbs  along  the  tender 
turf, 

And  wet  and  shining  from  the  spor- 
tive toil. 

Anoint  our  bodies  with  the  fragrant 
oil, 

And  plait  our  garlands  gathered 
from  the  grave, 

And  wear  the  wreaths  that  sprung 
from  out  the  brave. 

But  lo!  night  comes,  the  Mooa 
wooes  us  back. 

The  sound  of  mats  is  heard  along 
our  track ; 

Anon  the  torchlight-dance  shall  fling 
its  sheen 

In  flashings  mazes  o'er  the  Marly' s 
green ; 

And  we  too  will  be  there ;  we  too  re- 
call 

The  memory  bright  with  many  a 
festival. 

Ere  Fiji  blew  the  shell  of  war,  when 
foes 

For  the  first  time  were  wafted  in 
canoes. 

Strike  up  the  dance,  the  cava  bowl 
fill  high, 

Drain  every  drop! — to-morrow  we 
may  die. 

In  summer  garments  be  our  limbs 
arrayed ; 

Around  our  waist  the  Tappa's  white 
displayed ; 

Thick  wreaths  shall  form  our  coro- 
nal, like  spring's. 

And  round  our  necks  shall  glance 
the  Hooni  strings ; 

So  shall  their  brighter  hues  contrast 
the  glow 

Of  the  dusk  bosoms  that  beat  high 
below. 

Thus  rose  a  song, — the  harmony  of 

times 
Before  the  winds  blew  Europe  o'er 

these  climes. 


True,  they   had  vices,  —  such    are 

nature's  growth,  — 
But  only  the  barbarians'  —  we  have 

both ; 
The  sordor  of  civilization,  mixed 
With  all  the  savage  which  man's  fall 

hath  fixed. 
Who  hath  not  seen  dissimulation's 

reign. 
The  prayers  of  Abel  linked  to  deeds 

of  Cain  ? 
Who  such  would  see,  may  from  his 

lattice  view 
The  old  world  more  degraded  than 

the  new,  — 
Now    neiv    no    more,    save    where 

Columbia  rears 
Twin  giants,   born  by   freedom    to 

her  spheres. 
Where  Chimborazo,  over  air,  earth, 

wave. 
Glares  with  his  Titan  eye,  and  sees 

no  slave. 

Bykon. 

THE  SEA-CAYE. 

Young  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep, 

and  he 
Followed:    her   track   beneath   her 

native  sea 
Was  as  a  native's  of  the  element, 
So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she 

went. 
Leaving  a  streak  of  light  behind  her 

heel, 
Wliich  struck  and  flashed  like  an 

amphibious  steel. 
Closely,  and  scarcely  less  expert  to 

trace 
The  depths  where  divers  hold  the 

pearl  in  chase, 
Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  North- 
ern seas. 
Pursued  her  liquid  steps    with  art 

and  ease. 
Deep  —  deeper  for  an  instant  Neuha 

led 
The    way  —  then   upward  soared  — 

and,  as  she  spread 
Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from 

off  her  locks, 
Laughed,   and  the  sound  was    an- 
swered by  the  rocks. 
They  had  gained  a  central  realm  of 

earth  again. 
But  looked  for  tree,  and  field,  and 

sky,  in  vain. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


379 


Around  she  pointed  to  a  spacious 
cave, 

Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless 
wave, 

(A  hollow  archway  by  the  sun  un- 
seen, 

Save  through  the  billows'  glassy 
veil  of  green. 

In  some  transparent  ocean  holiday, 

When  all  the  finny  people  are  at 
play), 

Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from 
Torquil's  eyes, 

And  clapped  her  hands  with  joy  at 
his  surprise. 

Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young 
savage  drew 

A  pine  torch,  strongly  girded  with 
gnatoo ; 

A  plantain  leaf  o'er  all,  the  more  to 
keep 

Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping 
deep. 

This  mantle  kept  it  dry ;  then  from 
a  nook 

Of  the,  same  plantain  leaf,  a  flint 
she  took, 

A  few  shrunk  withered  twigs,  and 
from  the  blade 

Of  Torquil's  knife  struck  fire,  and 
thus  arrayed 

The  grot  with  torchlight.  Wide  it 
was  and  high, 

And  showed  a  self-born  Gothic  can- 
opy; 

The  arch  upreared  by  Nature's  archi- 
tect, 

The  architrave  some  earthquake 
might  erect ; 

The  buttress  from  some  mountain's 
bosom  hurled. 

When  the  poles  crashed  and  water 
was  the  world ; 

There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  phan- 
tasy, 

Fantastic  faces  moped  and  mowed 
on  high. 

And  then  a  mitre  or  a  shrine  would 
fix 

The  eye  upon  its  seeming  crucifix. 

Then  Nature  played  with  the  sta- 
lactites, 

And  built  herself  a  chapel  of  the  seas. 

And  Neuha  took  her  Torquil  by  the 
hand. 

And  waved  along  the  vault  her  kin- 
dled brand, 


And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and 

showed 
The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode. 
Nor  these  alone,  for  all  had  been 

prepared 
Before,  to  soothe  the  lover's  lot  she 

shared ; 
The  mat  for  rest ;  for  dress  the  fresh 

gnatoo. 
The  sandal-oil  to  fence  against  the 

dew ; 
For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam, 

the  bread 
Born  of  the  fruit;    for  board    the 

plantain  spread 
With  its  broad  leaf,  or  turtle-shell 

which  bore 
A  banquet  in  the  flesh  if  covered  o'er; 
The  gourd  with  water  recent  from 

the  rill, 
The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow 

hill; 
A  pine  torch  pile  to  keep  undying 

light; 
And  she  herself  as  beautiful  as  night, 
To  fling  her  shadowy  spirit  o'er  the 

scene. 
And  make  their  subterranean  world 

serene. 
She  had    foreseen,   since    first    the 

stranger's  sail 
Drew    to  their  isle,   that    force  or 

flight  might  fail. 
And  formed  a  refuge  of  the  rocky 

den 
For  Torquil's  safety  from  his  coun- 
trymen. 
Each  dawn  had  wafted  there    her 

light  canoe. 
Laden  with  all  the  golden  fruits  that 

grew; 
Each    eve     had     seen    her    gliding 

through  the  hour 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  their 

sparry  bower ; 
And  now  she  spread  her  little  store 

with  smiles. 
The  happiest  daughter  of  the  loving 

isles.  

'Twas  morn;  and  Neuha,   who  by 

dawn  of  day 
Swam  smoothly  forth  to  catch  the 

rising  ray. 
And  watch  if  aught  approached  the 

amphibious  lair 
Where  lay  her  lover,  saw  a  sail  iu 

air: 


380 


PARNASSUS. 


It  flapped,  it  filled,  then  to  the  grow- 
ing gale 

Bent  its  broad  arch :  her  breath  be- 
gan to  fail 

With  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beat 
thick  and  high. 

While  yet  a  doubt  sprung  where  its 
course  might  lie : 

But  no!  it  came  not;  fast  and  far 
away, 

The  shadow  lessened  as  it  cleared 
the  bay. 

She  gazed,  and  flung  the  sea-foam 
from  her  eyes, 

To  watch  as  for  a  rainbow  in  the 
skies. 

On  the  horizon  verged  the  distant 
deck, 

Diminished,  dwindled  to  a  very 
speck  — 

Then  vanished.    All  was  ocean,  all 


was  joy ! 


Byron. 


SONG  OF  THE  TONGA-ISLAND- 
ERS. 

Come  to  Licoo !  the  sun  is  riding 
Down    hills    of   gold    to    his    coral 

bowers ; 
Come  where  the  wood-pigeon's  moan 

is  chiding 
The    song  of   the  wind,  while  we 

gather  flowers. 

Let  us  plait  the  garland,  and  weave 

the  chi. 
While  the  wild  waves  dance  on  our 

iron  strand ; 
To-moiTow  these  waves  may  wash 

our  graves. 
And  the  moon  look  down  on  a  ruined 

land. 

Let  us  light  the  torches,  and  dip  our 

hair 
In  the  fragrant  oil  of  the  sandal- tree ; 
Strike  the  bonjoo,  and  the  oola  share, 
Ere  the  death-gods  hear  our  jubilee. 

Who  are  they  that  in  floating  towers 

Come  with  their  skins  of  curdled 
snows  ? 

They  shall  see  our  maidens  dress  our 
bowers, 

While  the  hooni  shines  on  their  sun- 
ny brows. 


Who  shall  mourn  when  red  with 
slaughter, 

Finow  sits  on  the  funeral  stone  ? 

Who  shall  weep  for  his  dying  daugh- 
ter? 

Who  shall  answer  the  red  chief's 
moan  ? 

He  shall  cry  unheard  by  the  funeral 

stone, 
He  shall  sink  unseen  by  the  split 

canoe. 
Though    the    plantain-bird   be   his 

alone. 
And  the  thundering  gods  of  Fanfon- 

noo. 

Let  us  not  think  'tis  but  an  hour 
Ere  the  wreath  shall  drop  from  the 

warrior's  waist; 
Let  us  not  think  'tis  but  an  hour 
We  have  on  our  perfumed  mats  to 

waste. 

Shall  we  not  banquet,  though  Ton- 
ga's king 

To-morrow  may  hurl  the  battle- 
spear  ? 

Let  us  whirl  our  torches,  and  tread 
the  ring,  — 

He  only  shall  find  our  foot-prints 
here. 

We  will  dive,  —  and  the  turtle's  track 

shall  guide 
Our  way  to  the  cave  where  Hoonga 

dwells. 
Where  under  the  tide  he  hides  his 

bride. 
And  lives  by  the  light  of  its  starry 

shells. 

Come  to  Licoo !  in  yellow  skies 
The  sun  shines  bright,  and  the  wild 

waves  play ; 
To-morrow  for  us  may  never  rise;  — 
Come  to  Licoo,  to-day,  to-day. 

ANONyMOUS. 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 

Hek  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 
They  dance  so  light  along; 

The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


381 


O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee : 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 
That  at  its  anchor  swings  ; 

The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 
Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her 
praise, 
But  dreams  the  while  of  one 
Who  watches  from    his    sea-blown 
deck 
The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
And  every  fog-wreath  dim. 

And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 
Bear  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of 
men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Yiking  of  the  fishing-smack ! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town !  — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown! 

But    ne'er    shall  Amy  Went  worth 
wear 

For  him  the  blush  of  shame 
Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 

Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring. 
And  blood  is  not  like  wine ; 

Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 
Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won. 
If  love  be  Fortune's  spur; 

And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 
Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 
With  stately  stairways  worn 

By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 
And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 


And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown,  — 
And    this    has  worn   the    soldier's 
sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 
She  walks  the  gallery-floor 

As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 
By  stormy  Labrador ! 

The  sweet-brier  blooms  on  Kittery- 
side, 

And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers ; 
Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 

The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 
To  see  the  white  gulls  fly ; 

His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 
Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old. 
Shall    homeward    ride  with    silken 
sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold ! 

O,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair. 
And  high  and  low  mate  ill ; 

But  love  has  never  known  a  law 
Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 

Whittiek. 


LADY  CLAEE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin.  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn : 
Lovers  long-betrothed  were  they : 

They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  mom : 
God's  blessing  on  the  day! 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth. 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth. 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse. 
Said,    "Who  was  this  that  went 
from  thee?" 
"It    was    my    cousin,"   said    Lady 
Clare, 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 


382 


PARNASSUS. 


"  O  God  be  thanked ! "  said  Alice  the 

nurse, 

*'  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and 

fair: 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 

And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"Are    ye    out    of    your  mind,   my 
nurse,  my  nurse?" 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "that  ye  speak 
so  wild?" 
"As  God's  above,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
"I  speak  the  truth:  you  are  my 
child. 

"  The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my 
breast ; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child. 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 
O  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be 
true. 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"    said  Alice 
the  nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life. 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ron- 
ald's, 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  brooch  of  gold. 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace 
by." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said,  "  Not  so :  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay  now,  what  faith  ?  "  said  Alice 
the  nurse, 
"The  man  will  cleave  unto  his 
right." 
"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  re- 
plied, 
"  Though  I  should  die  to-night." 

"  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother 
dear! 
Alas,  my  child,  I  sinned  for  thee." 


"O   mother,  mother,  mother,"  she 
said, 
"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

'  'Yet  here' s  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so. 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head. 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by 
down. 
With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  followed  her  all  the  way. 

Down   stept  Lord  Ronald  from   his 
tower : 
"  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your 
worth ! 
Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village 
maid. 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?  " 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 

I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"Play    me    no    tricks,"   said    Lord 
Ronald, 
"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in 
deed. 
Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

O  and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail ; 
She  looked  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laughed  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn: 
He   turned  and  kissed  her  where 
she  stood : 
"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And    I,"  said    he,   "the  next   in 
blood  — 

"If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 
Tennyson. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


383 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

Young  Jamie   lo'ed  me  weel,  and 

he  sought  me  for  his  bride, 
But  saving  a  crown  he  had  naething 

else  beside ; 
To  make  that  crown  a  pound,  my 

Jamie  gaed  to  sea. 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound  were 

baith  for  me. 
He  had  na  been  awa  a  week  but  only 

twa, 
When  my  mither  she  fell  sick,  and 

the  cow  was  stown  awa, 
My  father  brak  his   arm,   and   my 

Jamie  at  the  sea, 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  cam'  a-court- 

ing  to  me. 

My  father  cou'dna  work,   and    my 

mither  cou'dna  spin; 
I  toiled  baith  day  and  night,  but 

their  bread  I  cou'dna  win; 
Auld  Rob  maintained   them  baith, 

and  wi'  tears  in  his  ee 
Said,  Jenny,  for  their  sakes,  oh,  will 

you  marry  me  ? 
My  heart  it  said  nay ;  I  looked  for 

Jamie  back ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the 

ship  it  proved  a  wrack , 
The  ship  it  proved  a  wrack, — why 

didna  Jenny  dee  ? 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say.  Oh,  waes 

me! 

AuM  Robin  argued  sair,  though  my 

mither  didna  speak, 
She  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart 

was  like  to  break ; 
So  they  gied  him  my  hand,  though 

my  heart  was  at  the  sea. 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  is  a  gudeman 

to  me. 
I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only 

four. 
When  sitting  sae  mournfully  ae  day 

at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  cou'd- 
na think  it  he. 
Until  he  said,  Jenny,  I'm  come  to 

marry  thee. 

Oh,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle 
did  we  say, 

We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  tore  our- 
selves away: 


I  wish  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  nae  like 

to  dee ; 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Oh,  waes 

me! 
I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  I  carena  to 

spin, 
I  darena  think  on  Jamie,  for  that 

wad  be  a  sin ; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  for  to 

be. 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  is  kind  unto 

me. 

Lady  Anne  Lindsay. 


WALY,  WALY,  BUT  LOVE  BE 
BONNY. 

O,  Waly,  waly  up  the  bank. 
And  waly,  waly  down  the  brae. 
And  waly,  waly  yon  burn-side. 
Where  I  and  my  love  wont  to  gae. 

I  leaned  my  back  unto  an  aik, 
I  thought  it  was  a  trusty  tree ; 
But  first  it  bowed,  and  syne  it  brak,  -^ 
Sae  my  true  love  did  light  by  me  1 

O,  waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonny, 
A  little  time  while  it  is  new ; 
But  when  'tis  auld  it  waxeth  cauld. 
And  fades  away  like  the    morning 
dew. 

O,  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  head  ? 
Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  Jiair  ? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook. 
And  says  he'll  never  love  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-Seat  shall  be  my  bed ; 
The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  fyled  by 

me; 
St.  Anton's  well  shall  be  my  drink. 
Since  my  true  love  has  forsaken  me. 

Martinmas  wind,   when   wilt    thou 

blaw. 
And  shake  the  green  leaves  off  the 

tree? 
O  gentle  death,  when  wilt  thou  come  ? 
For  of  my  life  I'm  weary. 

'Tis  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell. 
Nor  blawing  thaw's  inclemency; 
'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry, 
But  my  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to 
me. 


884 


PARNASSUS. 


When  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town. 
We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see ; 
My  love  was  clad  in  the  black  vel- 
vet, 
And  I  mysel  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist  before  I  kissed, 
That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win, 
I'd  locked  my  heart  in  a  case    of 

gold, 
And  pinned  it  with  a  silver  pin. 

O,  O,  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 
And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee, 
And  I  mysel  were  dead  and  gane 
And  the  green  grass  growin'  ower 
me! 

Anonymous. 


FAIR  ANNIE. 

"It's  narrow,  narrow,  make  your 

bed. 
And  learn  to  lie  your  lane ; 
For  I'm  gaun  o'er  the  sea,  Fair  Annie, 
A  braw  bride  to  bring  hame. 
Wi'  her  I  will  get  gowd  and  gear ; 
Wi'  you  I  ne'er  got  nane. 

"  But  wha  will  bake  my  bridal  bread. 

Or  brew  my  bridal  ale  ? 

And    wha    will  welcome  my  brisk 

bride, 
That  I  bring  o'er  the  dale  ?  "  — 

"It's  I  will  bake  your  bridal  bread. 
And  brew  your  bridal  ale ; 
And  I  will  welcome  your  brisk  bride. 
That  you  bring  o'er  the  dale."  — 

"  But  she  that  welcomes  my  brisk 

bride 
Maun  gang  like  maiden  fair; 
She  maun  lace  on  her  robe  sae  jimp. 
And  braid  her  yellow  hair."  — 

"  But  how  can  I  gang  maiden-like, 
When  maiden  I  am  nane  ? 
Have  I  not  born  seven  sons  to  thee. 
And  am  with  child  again  ?  "  — 

She's  ta'en  her  young  son  in  her 

arms, 
Another  in  her  hand ; 
And  she's  up  to  the  highest  tower, 
To  see  him  come  to  land. 


"  Come  up,  come  up,  my  eldest  son, 

And  look  o'er  yon  sea-strand, 

And    see    your   father's    new-come 

bride. 
Before  she  come  to  land."  — 

"  Come    down,    come     down,    my 

mother  dear. 
Come  frae  the  castle  wa' ! 
I  fear,  if  langer  ye  stand  there. 
Ye' 11  let  yoursell  down  fa'."  — 

And    she  gaed  down,   and  farther 

down, 
Her  love's  ship  for  to  see ; 
And  the  topmast  and  the  mainmast 
Shone  like  the  silver  free. 

And  she's  gane  down,  and  farther 

down, 
The  bride's  ship  to  behold; 
And  the  topmast  and  the  mainmast 
They  shone  just  like  the  gold. 

She's  ta'en  her  seven  sons  in  her 

hand; 
I  wot  she  did'na  fail ! 
She  met  Lord  Thomas  and  his  bride, 
As  they  came  o'er  the  dale. 

"  You're    welcome   to  your  house, 

Lord  Thomas ; 
You're  welcome  to  your  land ; 
You're    welcome,    with    your    fair 

ladye. 
That  you  lead  by  the  hand. 

"  You're  welcome  to  your  ha's  ladye, 
You're  welcome  to  your  bowers; 
You're  welcome  to  your  hame,  ladye, 
For  a'  that's  here  is  yours."  — 

"  I  thank  thee,  Annie ;  I  thank  thee, 

Annie ; 
Sae  dearly  as  I  thank  thee ; 
You're  the  likest  to  my  sister  Annie, 
That  ever  I  did  see. 

"  There  came  a  knight  out  o'er  the 

sea. 
And  stealed  my  sister  away ; 
The  shame  scoup  in  his  company 
And  land  where'er  he  gae ! "  — 

She  hang  ae  napkin  at  the  door, 
Another  in  the  ha' ; 
And  a'  to  wipe  the  trickling  tears, 
Sae  fast  as  they  did  fa'. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AKD   BALLADS. 


385 


And  aye  she  served  the  lang  tables 
With  white  bread  and  with  wine ; 
And  aye  she  drank  the  wan  water, 
To  hand  her  colour  fine. 

And  aye  she  served  the  lang  tables, 
With  white  bread  and  with  brown ; 
And  ay  she  turned  her  round  about, 
Sae  fast  the  tears  fell  down. 

And  he's  ta'en  down  the  silk  napkin, 
Hung  on  a  silver  pin ; 
And  aye  he  wipes  the  tear  trickling 
Adown  her  cheek  and  chin. 

And  aye  he  turned  him  round  about, 
And  smiled  amang  his  men, 
Says  —  "  Like  ye  best  the  old  ladye. 
Or  her  that's  new  come  hame  ?  "  — 

When  bells  were  rung,  and  mass  was 

sung. 
And  a'  men  bound  to  bed, 
Lord  Thomas  and  his  new-come  bride, 
To  their  chamber  they  were  gaed. 

Annie  made  her  bed  a  tittle  forbye, 
To  hear  what  they  might  say ; 
"  And  ever  alas !  "  fair  Annie  cried, 
^'  That  I  should  see  this  day ! 

*'  Gin  my  seven  sons    were    seven 

young  rats, 
Running  on  the  castle  wa'. 
And  I  were  a  grey  cat  my  sell, 
I  soon  would  worry  them  a'. 

*'  Gin   my  seven  sons   were    seven 

young  hares. 
Running  o'er  yon  lilly  lee, 
And  I  were  a  grew  hound  mysell. 
Soon  worried  they  a'  should  be."  — 

And  wae  and  sad  fair  Annie  sat, 
And  drearie  was  her  sang ; 
And  ever,  as  she  sobbed  and  grat, 
*'  Wae  to    the    man    that    did    the 
wrang!" — 

"  My  gown  is  on,"  said  the  new-come 

bride, 
"  My  shoes  are  on  my  feet, 
And  I  will  to  fair  Annie's  chamber, 
And  see  what  gars  her  greet. 

"What  ails  ye,  what  ails  ye.  Fair 

Annie, 
That  ye  make  sic  a  moan  ? 
25 


Has  your  wine  barrells  cast  the  girds, 
Or  is  your  white  bread  gone  ? 

"O  wha  was't  was  your  father,  Annie, 
Or  wha  was't  was  your  mother? 
And  had  you  ony  sister,  Annie, 
Or  had  you  ony  brother  ?  "  — 

"  The  Earl  of  Wemyss  was  my  father, 
The  Countess  of  Wemyss  my  mother ; 
And  a'  the  folk  about  the  house. 
To  me  were  sister  and  brother."  — 

"  If  the  Earl  of  Wemyss  was  your 

father, 
I  wot  sae  was  he  mine ; 
And  it  shall  not  be  for  lack  o'gowd, 
That  ye  your  love  sail  tyne. 

"  Come  to  your  bed,  my  sister  dear, 
It  ne'er  was  wranged  for  me, 
But  an  ae  kiss  of  his  merry  mouth, 
As  we  cam  owre  the  sea." 

"  Awa,  awa,  ye  forenoon  bride, 
Awa,  awa  f rae  me : 
I  wudna  hear  my  Annie  greet, 
For  a'  the  gold  I  got  wi'  thee." 

"01  have  seven  ships  o'  mine  ain, 

A'  loaded  to  the  brim ; 

And  I  will  gie  them  a'  to  thee, 

Wi'  four  to  thine  eldest  son. 

But  thanks  to  a'  the  powers  in  heaven 

That  I  gae  maiden  hame ! " 

Scott's  Veksion. 


GRISELDA. 

THE   CLEKKES  TALE. 

Ther  is  right  at  the  West  side  of 
Itaille 

Doun  at  the  rote  of  Vesulus  the  cold, 

A  lusty  plain,  abundant  of  vitaille, 

Ther  many  a  toun  and  tour  thou 
maist  behold, 

That  founded  were  in  time  of  fa- 
thers old. 

And  many  another  delitable  sighte. 

And  Saluces  this  noble  contree 
highte. 

A  markis  whilom  lord  was  of  that 
land. 
As  were  his  worthy  elders  him  before, 
And  obeysant,  ay  redy  to  his  hand. 


S86 


PARNASSUS. 


Were  all  his  lieges,  bothe  lesse  and 
more : 

Thus  in  delit  he  liveth,  and  hath 
done  yore, 

Beloved  and  drad,  thurgh  favour  of 
fortune. 

Both  of  his  lordes,  and  of  his  com- 
mune. 

Therwith  he  was,  to  speken  of 

linage. 
The  gentilest  ybome  of  Lombardie, 
A  faire  person,  and  strong,  and  yong 

of  age, 
And  ful  of  honour  and  of  curtesie: 
Discret  ynough,  his  contree  for  to  gie. 
Save  in  som  thinges  that  he  was  to 

blame. 
And  Walter  was  this  yonge  lordes 

name. 

I  blame  him  thus,  that  he  consid- 
ered nought 

In  time  coming  what  might  him  be- 
tide. 

But  on  his  lust  present  was  all  his 
thought. 

And  for  to  liauke  and  hunt  on  every 
side : 

Wei  neigh  all  other  cur^s  let  he  slide. 

And  eke  he  n'old  (and  that  was 
worst  of  all) 

Wedden  no  wif  for  ought  that  might 
befall. 

Only  that  point  his  peple  bare  so  sore, 

That  flockmel  on  a  day  to  him  they 
went. 

And  one  of  them,  that  wisest  was  of 
lore, 

(Or  elles  that  the  lord  wold  best  as- 
sent 

That  he  shuld  tell  him  what  the 
peple  ment. 

Or  elles  coud  he  wel  shew  suich 
matere) 

He  to  the  markis  said  as  ye  shall  here. 

"  O  noble  markis,  your  humanitee 
Assureth  us  and  yeveth  us  hardinesse, 
As  oft  as  time  is  of  necessitee. 
That  we  to  you  may  tell  our  hevi- 

nesse : 
Accepteth,  lord,  then  of  your  gen- 

tillesse. 
That  we  with  pitous  herte  unto  you 

plaine. 
And  let  your  er^s  not  my  vols  dis- 

daine. 


Al  have  I  not  to  don  in  this  mat- 
ere 
More  than  another  man  hath  in  this 

place. 
Yet  for  as  moch  as  ye,  my  lord  so 

dere 
Han  alway  shewed  me  favour  and 

grace, 
I  dare  the  better  aske  of  you  a  space 
Of  audience,  to  shewen  our  request, 
And  ye,  my  lord,  to  don  right  as  you 
lest. 

For  certes,  lord,  so  wel  us  liketh  you 
And  all  your  werke,  and  ever  have 

don,  that  we 
N'e  couden  not  ourself  devisen  how 
We  mighten  live  in  more  f elicitee : 
Save  one  thing,  lord,  if  it  your  will6 

be. 
That  for  to  be  a  wedded  man  you  lest, 
Then  were  your  peple  in  soverain 

berths  rest. 

Boweth   your    nekke   under   the 

blisful  yok 
Of  soveraintee,  and  not  of  servise, 
Which  that  men  clepen  spousalile  or 

wedlok : 
And    thinketh,    lord,    among   your 

thoughtes  wise. 
How  that  our  dayes  passe  in  sondry 

wise; 
For  though  we  slepe,  or  wake,  or 

rome,  or  ride. 
Ay  fleth  the  time,  it  wol  no  man 

abide. 

And  though  your  grene   youthe 

floure  as  yet. 
In  crepeth  age  alway  as  still  as  stone, 
And  deth  menaceth  every  age,  and 

smit 
In  eche  estat,  for  ther  escapeth  none : 
And  al  so  certain,  as  we  knowe  eche 

one 
That  we  shul  die,  as  uncertain  we 

all 
Ben  of  that  day  whan  deth  shal  on 

us  fall. 

Accepteth  then  of  us  the  trewe 

entent. 
That  never  yet  refus^den  your  best, 
And  we  wol,  lord,  if  that  ye  wol  as^ 

sent, 
Chese  you  a  wife  in  short  time  at  the 

mest. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS   AND   BALLADS. 


387 


Borne  of  the  gentillest  and  of  the 

best 
Of  all  this   lond,  so  that  it  oughte' 

seme 
Honour  to  God  and  you,  as  we  can 

deme. 

Deliver  us  out  of    all   this  besy 

drede, 
And  take   a  wif,  for  highe  Goddes 

sake: 
For  if  it  so  befell,  as  God  forbede, 
That  thurgh  your  deth  your  linage 

shulde  slake, 
And  that  a  strange  successour  shuld 

take 
Your  heritage,  o!  wo  were  us  on 

live: 
Wherfore   we  pray  you  hastily    to 

wive." 

Hir  meke  praiere  and  hir  pitous 

chere 
Made  the  markis  for  to  han  pitee. 
"Ye  wol,"   quod  he,    "min  owen 

peple  dere, 
To  that  I  never  ere  thought  con- 

strainen  me. 
I  me  rejoyeed  of  my  libertee, 
That  selden  time  is  found  in  mar- 

iage: 
Ther  I  was  free,  I  moste  ben  in  ser- 

vage. 

"But  natheles  I  see  your  trewe 
entent. 

And  trust  upon  your  wit,  and  have 
don  ay : 

Wherfore  of  my  free  will  I  wol  as- 
sent 

To  wedden  me,  as  sone  as  ever  I 
may. 

But  ther  as  ye  han  profred  me  to- 
day 

To  chesen  me  a  wife,  I  you  relese 

That  chois,  and  pray  you  of  that 
profer  cese. 

"For  God  it  wot,  that  children  of- 
ten ben 

Unlike  hir  worthy  eldres  them  be- 
fore, 

Bountee  cometh  al  of  God,  not  of 
the  stren. 

Of  which  they  ben  ygendred  and 
ybore : 

I  trust  in  Goddes  bountee,  and  ther- 
fore 


My  mariage,   and    min  estat,    and 

rest 
I  him  betake,   he  may  do  as  him 

lest. 

"Let  me  alone  in  chosing  of  my 

wife. 
That  charge  upon  my  bak  I  wol  en- 
dure: 
But  I  you  pray,   and  charge  upon 

your  life, 
That  what  wif  that  I  take,  ye  me 

assure 
To  worship  her  while  that  her  life 

may  dure, 
In  word  and  work  both  here  and 

elles  where. 
As    she    an    emperoures    daughter 

were. 

"And  forthermore  this  shuln  ye 

swere,  that  ye 
Again  my  chois  shal  never  grutch  ne 

strive. 
For  sith  I  shal  forgo  my  libertee 
At  your  request,   as  ever    mote    I 

thrive, 
Where  as  min  herte  is  set,  ther  wol 

I  wive : 
And  but  ye  wol  assent  in  such  man- 

ere, 
I  pray  you  speke  no  more  of  this 

matere." 

With  hertly  will  they  sworen  and 

assenten 

this  tliini^, 

wight  nay. 
Beseching  him    of    grace,    or    that 

they  wenten. 
That  he  wold  granten  them  a  cer- 
tain day 
Of  his  spousaile,  as  soon  as  ever  he 

may, 
For  yet  alway  the    peple    somwhat 

dred. 
Lest  that  this  markis  wolde  no  wif 

wed. 

He  granted  hem  a  day,  such  as 
him  lest. 

On  which  he  wold  be  wedded  sikerly, 

And  said  he  did  all  this  at  hir  re- 
quest. 

And  they  with  humble  herte  ful 
buxumly 

Ejieliug  upon  their  knees  ful  rever- 
eutly 


388 


PARNASSUS. 


Him  tliankbd  all,  and  thus  they  had 

an  end 
Of  their  entente,  and  home  agen  they 

wend. 

And  hereupon  he  to  his  officeres 
Commandeth  for  the  feste  to  purvay. 
And    to    his    privee    knightes    and 

squieres 
Such  charge  he  gave,  as  him  list  on 

them  lay : 
And  they  to  his  commaiid^ment  obey, 
And  eche  of  them  doth  all  his  dili- 
gence 
To  do  unto  the  feste  all  reverence. 

PARS   SECUNDA. 

Nought  far  fro  thilke  paleis  hon- 
ourable, 
Wlier  as  this  markis  shope  his  mar- 

iage, 
Ther  stood  a  thorpe,  of  sighte  delita- 

ble. 
In  which  that  poure  folk   of   that 

village 
Hadden  their  bestes  and  their  her- 

bergage. 
And  of  hir  labour  toke  hir  suste- 

tenance, 
After    that    the    erthe    gave  them 

abundance. 

Among  this  pour^  folk  ther  dwelt 

a  man. 
Which  that  was  holden  poorest  of 

them  all : 
But  highe  God  somtime'  senden  can 
His  grace  unto  a  litel  oxes  stall : 
Janicola  men  of  that  thoi-pe  him  call. 
A  doughter  had  he,  faire  enough  to 

sight. 
And   Grisildis   this    yongd   maiden 

hight. 

But  for  to  speke  of  vertuous  beau- 
tee. 

Then  was  she  one  the  fairest  under 
Sonne : 

Ful  pourle'y  yfostred  up  was  she : 

No  likerous  lust  was  in  hire  herte 
yronne ; 

Wei  ofter  of  the  well  than  of  the 
tonne 

She  dranke,  and  for  she  wolde  vertue 
plese, 

She  knew  wel  labour,  but  none  idel 


But  though  this  mayden  tendre 

were  of  age, 
Yet  in  the  brest  of  her  virginitee 
Ther    was    enclosed    sad    and    ripe 

corage  : 
And  in  great  reverence  and  charitee 
Her  olde  poure'  father  f ostred  she : 
A  few  sheep  spinning  on  the  feld  she 

kept. 
She  wolde  not  ben  idel  til  she  slept. 

And   whan  she  homeward  came, 
she  wolde  bring 
Wortes  and  other  herbes  times  oft, 
The  which  she  shred  and  sethe  for 

her  living. 
And  made  her  bed   ful  hard,  and 

nothing  soft : 
And  ay  she  kept  her  fadres  life  on 

loft 
With  every  obeisance  and  diligence, 
That  child  may  don  to  fadres  rever- 
ence. 

Upon  Grisilde,  this  poure  creature, 
Ful  often  sithe  this  markis  sette  his 

eye. 
As  he  on  hunting  rode  paraventure: 
And  whan  it  fell  that  he  might  hire 

espie. 
He  not  with  wanton  loking  of  folic 
His  eyen  cast  on  her,  but   in  sad 

wise 
Upon  her  chere   he  wold  him   oft 

avise, 

Commending    in    his   herte   her 

womanhede. 
And  eke    her  vertue,  passing  any 

wight 
Of  so  yong  age,  as  wel  in  chere  as 

dede. 
For  though  the  peple  have  no  great 

insight 
In  virtue,  he  considered  ful  right 
Her  bountee,  and  disposed  that  he 

wold 
Wedde  her  only,  if  ever  he  wedden 

shold. 

The  day  of  wedding  came,  but  no 

wight  can 
Tellen  what  woman  that  it  shulde' 

be, 
For  which  mervaille  wondred  many 

a  man, 
And  saiden,  whan  they  were  in  pri- 

vetee. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


389 


Wol  not  our  lord  yet  leve  his  vanitee  ? 
Wol  lie  not  wedde?  alas,  alas  the 

while ! 
Why  wol  he  thus  himself  and  us 

begile  ? 

But  natheles  this  markis  hath  do 

make 
Of  gemmes,  sette    in   gold  and  in 

asure, 
Broches    and    ringes,    for  Grisildes 

sake, 
And  of    her  clothing  toke    he   the 

mesure 
Of  a  maiden  like  unto  her  stature. 
And  eke  of  other  ornamentes  all, 
That  unto  swiche  a  wedding  shulde 

fall. 

The  time  of  underne  of  the  same 

day 
Approcheth,     that     this     wedding 

shulde  be, 
And  all  the  paleis  put  was  in  ar- 
ray, 
Both  halle  and  chambres,  eche  in 

his  degree, 
Houses  of  office  stuffed  with  plen- 

tee 
Ther  mayst  thou  see  of  dainteous 

vitaille, 
That  may  be  found,  as  far  as  lasteth 

Itaille. 

This  real  markis  richely  arraide, 
Lordes  and  ladies  in  his  compagnie. 
The  which   unto   the  feste    weren 

praide, 
And  of  his  retenue  the  bachelerie. 
With  many  a  sound  of  sondry  mel- 
odic, 
Unto  the  village,  of  the  which  I  told, 
In  this  array  the  righte  way  thev 
hold. 

Grisilde  of  this  (God  wot)  ful  inno- 
cent, 

That  for  her  shapen  was  all  this 
array. 

To  fetchen  water  at  a  welle  is  went. 

And  Cometh  home  as  sone  as  ever 
she  may. 

For  wel  she  had  herd  say,  that  thilke 
day 

The  markis  shulde'  wedde,  and,  if 
she  might. 

She  wolde  fayn  han  seen  some  of 
that  sight. 


She  thought,  "I  wol  with    other 

maidens  stond, 
That  ben  my  felawes,  in  our  dore, 

and  see 
The  markisesse,  and  therto  wol  I  fond 
To  don  at  home,  as  soon  as  it  may  be, 
The  labour  which  that  longeth  unto 

me, 
And  than  I  may  at  leiser  her  behold, 
If  she  this  way  unto  the  castel  hold." 

And  as  she  wolde  over  the  thres- 

wold  gon, 
The  markis  came  and  gan  her  for  to 

call. 
And  she  set  doun  her  water-pot  anon 
Beside  the  threswold  in  an  oxes  stall. 
And  doun  upon  her  knees  she  gan  to 

fall. 
And  with  sad  countenance  kneleth 

still. 
Til  she  had  herd  what  was  the  lordes 

will. 

This  thoughtful  markis  spake  unto 

this  maid 
Ful  soberly,  and  said  in  this  manere: 
"Wher  is  your  fader,  Grisildis?"  he 

said. 
And  she  with  reverence  in  humble 

chere 
Answered,"  Lord,  he  is  al  redy  here." 
And  in  she  goth  withouten  lenger 

lette, 
And  to  the  markis  she  hire  fader 

fette. 

He  by  the  hand  than    toke  this 

poure  man, 
And  saide  thus,  whan  he  him  had 

aside : 
"  Janicola,  I  neither  may  nor  can 
Longer  the  plesance  of  mine  herte 

hide. 
If  that  thou  vouchesauf,  what  so 

betide. 
Thy  doughter  wol  I  take  or  that  I 

wend 
As  for  my  wif ,  unto  her  lives  end. 

"  Thou  lovest  me,  that  wot  I  wel 

certain, 
And  art  my  faithful  liegeman  ybore. 
And  all  that  liketh  me,  I  dare  wel 

sain 
It  liketh  thee,  and  specially  therfore 
Tell  me  that  point,  that  I  have  said 

before. 


890 


PARNASSUS. 


If  that  thou  wolt  unto  this  purpos 

drawe, 
To  taken  me  as  for  thy  son  in  lawe." 

This  soden  cas  this  man  astoned 

so, 
That   red   he  wex,  abaist,  and    al 

quaking 
He  stood,  unnethes  said  he  worde's 

mo, 
But  only  thus;   "Lord,"  quod  he, 

"my  willing 
Is  as  ye  wol,  ne  ageins  your  liking 
I  wol  no  thing,  min  owen  lord  so 

dere, 
Right  as    you  list,  governeth   this 

matere." 

"Than  wol  I,"  quod  this  markis 
softely, 

"  That  in  thy  chambre,  I,  and  thou, 
and  she, 

Have  a  collation,  and  wost  thou  why  ? 

For  I  wol  ask  her,  if  it  her  wille  be 

To  be  my  wif,  and  rule  her  after 
me: 

And  all  this  shal  be  done  in  thy 
presence, 

I  wol  not  speke  out  of  thine  au- 
dience." 

And  in  the  chambre,  while  they 
were  about 
The  tretee,  which  as  ye  shul  after 

here, 
The  peple  came  into  the  hous  with- 
out, 
And  wondred  them,  in  how  honest 

manere 
Ententifly  she  kept  hire  fader  dere : 
But  utterly  Grisildis  wonder  might, 
For  never  erst  ne  saw  she  swiclie  a 
sight. 

No  wonder  is  though  that  she  be 

astoned. 
To  see  so  gret  a  gest  come  in  that 

place. 
She  never  was  to  non   such  gestes 

woned, 
For  which  she  loked  with  ful  pale 

face. 
But  shortly  forth  this  matere  for  to 

chace. 
These     are     the    worde's    that    the 

markis  said 
To    this    benigne,    veray,    faithful 

maid. 


"Grisilde,"  he  said,  "yeshulnwel 

understond, 
It  liketh  to  your  fader  and  to  me. 
That  I  you  wedde,  and  eke  it  may  so 

stond 
As  I  suppose,  ye  wol  that  it  so  be : 
But    thise    demaundes    aske  I  first 

(quod  he) 
That  sin  it  shal  be  don  in  Rasty  wise, 
Wol  ye  assent,  or  elles  you  avise  ? 

"I  say  this,  be  ye  redy  with  good 
herte 

To  all  my  lust,  and  that  I  freely  may 

As  me  best  thinketh  do  you  laugh  or 
smerte, 

And  never  ye  to  grutchen,  night  ne 
day. 

And  eke  whan  I  say  yea,  ye  say  not 
nay, 

Neither  by  word,  ne  frouning  coun- 
tenance ? 

Swere  this,  and  here  I  swere  our  alli- 
ance." 

Wondring  upon  this  thing,  quak- 
ing for  drede. 

She  saide,  "Lord,  indigne  and  un- 
worthy 

Am  I,  to  thilke  honour,  that  ye  me 
bede, 

But  as  ye  wol  yourself,  right  so  wol  I : 

And  here  I  swere,  that  never  will- 
ingly 

In  werk,  ne  thought,  I  n'ill  you  dis- 
obeie 

For  to  be  ded,  though  me  were  loth 
to  deie." 

"  This  is  ynough,  Grisilde  min," 

quod  he. 
And  forth  he  goth  with  a  ful  sobre 

chere. 
Out  at  the  dore,  and  after  then  came 

she. 
And  to  the  peple   he  said  in  this 

manere : 
"This  is  my  wif,"  quod  he,  "that 

stondeth  here. 
Honoureth  her,   and    loveth  her,  I 

pray, 
Who  so  me  loveth,  ther  n'is  no  more 

to  say." 

And  for  that  nothing  of  her  old^ 
gere 
She  shulde  bring  into  his  hous,  he 
bad 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


391 


That  women    shuld   despoilen   lier 

right  there, 
Of  which  thise  ladies  weren  nothing 

glad 
To  handle  her  clothes  wherin  she 

was  clad : 
But  natheles  this  maiden  bright  of 

hew 
Fro  foot  to  hed  they  clothed  han  all 

new. 

Her  heres  han  they  kempt,  that 

lay  untressed 
Ful  rudely,  and  with  her  fingres  smal 
A  coroune    on    her  hed    they  han 

ydressed, 
And  sette  her  ful  of  nouches  gret 

and  smal : 
Of  her  array  what  shuld  I  make  a 

tale? 
Unneth  the  peple  her  knew  for  her 

fairnesse, 
Whan  she  transmewed  was  in  swiche 

richesse. 

This  markis  hath  her  spoused  with 

a  ring 
Brought  for  the  same  cause,  and  than 

her  sette 
Upon  an  hors  snow-white,  and  wel 

ambling, 
And  to  his  paleis,  or  he  lenger  lette, 
(With  joyful  peple,  that  her  lad  and 

mette) 
Conveyed  her,  and  thus  the  day  they 

spende 
In  revel,  til  the  sonne  gan  descende. 

And  shortly  forth  this  tale  for  to 

chace, 
I  say,  that  to  this  new^  markisesse 
God  hath  swiche  favour  sent  her  of 

his  grace, 
That  it  ne  semeth  not  by  likelinesse 
That  she  was  borne  and  fed  in  rude- 

nesse. 
As  in  a  cote,  or  in  an  oxes  stall. 
But  nourished  in  an  emperoures  hall. 

To  every  wight  she  waxen  is  so  dere, 
And  worshipful,  that  folk  ther  she 

was  bore 
And  fro  her  birthe  knew  her  yere  by 

yere, 
Unnethes  trowed  they,  but  dorst  han 

swore, 
That  to  Janicle,  of  which  I  spake 

before. 


She  doughter  n'as,  for  as  by  conjec- 
ture 

Hem  thoughte  she  was  another  crea- 
ture. 

For  though  that  ever  vertuous 
was  she, 

She  was  encresed  in  swiche  excel- 
lence 

Of  thewes  good,  yset  in  high  boun- 
tee. 

And  so  discrete,  and  faire  of  elo- 
quence. 

So  benigne,  and  so  digne  of  rev- 
erence. 

And  coude'  so  the  peples  herte  em- 
brace, 

That  eche  her  loveth  that  loketh  on 
her  face. 

Nor  only  of  Saluces  in  the  toun 
Published  was   the  bountee  of  her 

name. 
But  eke  beside  in  many  a  regioun. 
If  one  saith  wel,  another  saith  the 

same  : 
So  spredeth  of  her  hie  bountee  the 

fame. 
That  men  and  women,  yong  as  wel 

as  old, 
Gon  to  Saluces  upon  her  to  behold. 

Thus  Walter  lowly,  nay  but  really, 
Wedded  with  fortunat  honestetee. 
In  Goddes  peace  liveth  ful  esily 
At  home,  and  grace  ynough  outward 

had  he : 
And  for  he  saw  that  under  low  de- 
gree 
Was  honest  vertue  hid,   the  peple 

him  held 
A  prudent  man,  and  that  is  seen  ful 
seld. 

Not    only    this    Grisildis   thurgh 

her  wit 
Coude  all  the  fete  of  wifly  homli- 

nesse. 
But  eke  whan  that  the  cas  required 

it. 
The    comun^  profit  coude  she    re- 

dresse : 
Ther    n'as    discord,     rancour,     ne 

hevinesse 
In  all  the  lond,  that  she  ne  coude 

appese. 
And  wisely  bring  hem  all  in  hertes 

ese. 


392 


PARNASSUS. 


Though  that  her  husbond  absent 

were  or  non, 
If  gentilmen,  or  other  of  that  contree 
Were  wroth,  she  wolde  bringen  them 

at  one, 
So  wise  and  ripe  wordes  hadde  she, 
And  jugement  of  so  gret  equitee, 
That  she  from  heven  sent  was,  as 

men  wend, 
Peple  to  save,  and  every  wrong  to 

amend. 

Not   longe   time   after  that  this 

Grisilde 
Was  wedded,  she  a  doughter  hath 

ybore, 
All  had  hire  lever  han  borne  a  knave 

child : 
Glad  was  the  markis  and  his  folk 

therfore, 
For  though  a  maiden  childe  come 

all  before. 
She  may  unto  a  knave  child  atteine 
By  likelyhed,  sin  she  n'is  not  bar- 

reine. 

PABS  TEBTIA, 

Ther  fell,  as  it  befalleth  times  mo. 
Whan  that  this  childe  had  souked 

but  a  throwe, 
This  markis  in  his  hert^  longed  so 
To  tempt  his  wif,  her  sadnesse  for 

to  knowe, 
That  he  ne  might  out  of  his  herte 

throwe 
This  marveillous  desir  his  wif    to 

assay, 
Needles,  God  wot,  he  thought  hire 

to  affray. 

He  had  assaied  her  enough  before, 
And   found    her  ever   good,    what 

nedeth  it 
Her  for  to  tempt,  and  alway  more 

and  more  ? 
Though  some  men  praise  it  for  a 

subtil  wit, 
But  as  for  me,  I  say  that  evil  it  sit 
To  assay  a  wife  when  that  it  is  no 

nede. 
And  putten  her  in  anguish  and  in 

drede. 

For  which  this  markis  wrought  in 

this  manere ; 
He  came  a-night  alone  ther  as  she  lay 
With  stern€  face,  and  with  f ul  trouble 

chere, 


And  sayde  thus:  "Grisilde"  (quod 

he)  "that  day 
That  I  you  toke  out  of  your  poure 

array, 
And  put  you  in  estat  of  high  noblesse. 
Ye  han  it  not  forgotten,  as  I  gesse. 

"I  say,  Grisilde,  this  present  dig- 

nitee. 
In  which  that  I  have  put  you,  as  I, 

trow, 
Maketh  you  not  forgetful  for  to  be 
That  I  you  toke  in  poure  estat  ful 

low, 
For  ony  wele  ye  mote  yourselven 

know. 
Take  hede  of  every  word  that  I  you 

say, 
Ther  is  no  wight  that  hereth  it  but 

we  tway. 

"  Ye  wote  yourself  wel  how  that 

ye  came  here 
Into  this  hous,  it  is  not  long  ago. 
And  though  to  me  ye  be  right  lefe 

and  dere. 
Unto  my  gentils  ye  be  nothing  so : 
They  say,  to  hem  it  is  gret  shame 

and  wo 
For  to  be  suggetes,  and  ben  in  ser- 

vage 
To  thee,  that  borne  art  of  a  smal 

linage. 

"  And  namely  since  thy  doughter 

was  ybore. 
These    wordes    han    they    spoken 

douteles. 
But  I  desire,  as  I  have  don  before. 
To  live  my  lif  with  them  in  rest  and 

peace : 
I  may  not  in  this  case  be  reccheles ; 
I  mote  do  with  thy  doughter  for  the 

best. 
Not  as  I  wold,  but  as  my  gentils  lest. 

"And  yet,  God  wote,  this  is  ful 

loth  to  me : 
But  natheles  withouten  youre  weting 
I  wol  nought  do,   but  thus  wol  I 

(quod  he) 
That  ye  to  me  assenten  in  this  thing. 
Shew  now  youre  patience  in  youre 

werking 
That  ye  me  hight  and  swore  in  youre 

village 
The  day  that  maked  was  our  mari- 

age." 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


393 


Whan  she  had  herd  all  this,  she 
not  anieved 

Neyther  in  word,  in  chere,  ne 
countenance, 

(For  as  it  semed,  she  was  not  agreved ) 

She  sayde:  "Lord,  all  lith  in  your 
plesance. 

My  child  and  I,  with  hertely  obei- 
sance 

Ben  youres  all,  and  ye  may  save  or 
spill, 

Tour  owen  thing:  werketh  after 
your  will. 

Ther  may  no  thing,  so  God  my 

soule  save, 
Like  unto  you,  that  may  displesen 

me: 
Ne  I  desire  nothing  for  to  have, 
Ne  drede  for  to  lese,  sauf  only  ye : 
This  will  is  in  myn  herte,  and  ay 

shal  be. 
No  length  of  time,  or  deth  may  this 

deface, 
Ne  change  my  corage  to  an  other 

place." 

Glad    was    this    markis    for   her 

answering, 
But  yet  he  feined  as  he  were  not  so, 
Al  drery   was    his    chere    and    his 

loking. 
Whan  that  he  shuld  out  of  the  cham- 

bre  go. 
Sone  after  this,  a  furlong  way  or  two. 
He  prively  hath  told  all  his  entent 
Unto  a  man,  and  to  his  wif  him  sent. 

A  maner  sergeant  was  this  prive 

man. 
The  which  he  faithful  often  f ounden 

had 
In  thinges  gret,  and  eke  swiche  folk 

wel  can 
Don  execution  on  thinges  bad : 
The  lord  knew  wel,  that  he  him  loved 

and  drad. 
And  whan    this   sergeant  wist  his 

lordes  will, 
Into  the  chambre  he  stalked  him  ful 

still. 

"Madame,"   he  sayd,   "ye   mote 

forgive  it  me. 
Though  I  do  thing,  to  which  I  am 

constreined : 
Ye   ben    so   wise,  that    right   wel 

knowen  ye, 


That  lordes  hestes  may  not  ben 
yfeined. 

They  may  wel  be  bewailed  and  com- 
plained. 

But  men  mote  nedes  to  their  lust 
obey, 

And  so  wol  I,  ther  n'is  no  more  to 
say. 

"  This  child  I  am  commanded  for 

to  take." 
And  spake  no  more,   but  out  the 

child  he  hent 
Despiteously,  and  gan  a   chere  to 

make. 
As  thovigh  he  wold  have  slain  it,  or 

he  went. 
Grisildis  must  al  suffer  and  al  con- 
sent: 
And  as  a  lambe,  she  sitteth   meke 

and  still. 
And  let  this  cruel  sergeant  do  his 

will. 

Suspecious  was  the  diffame  of  this' 

man. 
Suspect  his  face,  suspect  his  word 

also. 
Suspect  the  time  in  which  he  this 

began : 
Alas !  her  doughter,  that  she  loved 

so. 
She  wende  he  wold  han  slaien  it 

right  tho, 
But  natheles  she  neither  wept  ne 

siked. 
Conforming  her  to  that  the  markis 

liked. 

But  at  the  last  to  speken  she  began, 
And  mekely  she  to  the  sergeant  praid 
(So  as  he  was  a  worthy  gentil  man) 
That  she  might  kiss  her  child,  or 

that  it  deid : 
And  in  her  barme  this  litel  child  she 

leid, 
With  ful  sad  face,  and  gan  the  child 

to  blisse. 
And  lulled  it,  and  after  gan  it  kisse. 

And  thus  she  sayd  in  her  benigne 

vols: 
"Farewel,    my    child,  I  shal  thee 

never  see. 
But  sin  I  have  thee  marked  with 

the  crois. 
Of  thilke  fader  yblessed  mote  thou 

be. 


394 


PARNASSUS. 


That  for  us  died  upon  a  crols  of  tree : 
Thy  soule,  litel  child,  I  liim  betake, 
For  this  night  shalt  thou  dien  for 
my  salve." 

I  trow  that  to  a  norice  in  this  case 
It  had  ben  hard  this  routhe  for  to 

see: 
Wei  might  a  moder  than  han  cried 

alas. 
But  natheles  so  sad  stedf  ast  was  she, 
That  she  endured  all  adversitee, 
And  to  the  sergeant  mekely  she  sayde, 
*'  Have  here  agen  your  litel  yonge 

mayde. 

"Goth   now"    (quod   she)    "and 

doth  my  lordes  best : 
And  one  thing  wold  I  pray  you  of 

your  grace, 
But  if  my  lord  forbade  you  at  the  lest, 
Burieth  this  litel  body  in  some  place. 
That  bestes  ne  no  birdies  it  to-race." 
But  he  no  word  to  that  purpos  wold 

say, 
But  toke  the  child  and  went  upon 

his  way. 

This  sergeant  came  unto  his  lord 

again. 
And  of  Grisildes  wordes  and  her  chere 
fie  told  him  point  for  point,  in  short 

and  plain, 
And  him  presented  with  his  doughter 

dere. 
Somwhat  this  lord  hath  routhe  in 

his  manere. 
But  natheles  his  purpos  held  he  still. 
As  lordes  don,  whan  they  wol  han 

hir  will.i 

And  bad   this  sergeant    that    he 

prively 
Shulde  this  child  ful  softe  wind  and 

wrappe, 
With  alle  circumstances  tendrely. 
And  carry  it  in  a  coffer,  or  in  a  lappe ; 
But  upon  peine  his  hed  ofE  for  to 

swappe 
That  no  man  shulde  know  of  his 

entent, 
Ne  whence  he  came,  ne  whither  that 

he  went; 

But  at  Boloigne,  unto  his  sister 
dere, 
That   thilke    time    of    Pavie   was 
countesse, 


He  shuld  it  take,  and  shew  hire  this 

niatere, 
Beseching  hire  to  don  her  besinesse 
This  child  to  fostren  in  all  gentillesse, 
And  wlios  child  that  it  was  he  bade 

her  hide 
From  every  wight,   for  ought  that 

may  betide. 

This  sergeant  goth,  and  hath  ful- 
filde  this  thing. 
But  to  this  marquis  now  retonie  we ; 
For  now  goth  he  ful  fast  imagining, 
If  by  his  wives  chere  he  mighte  see, 
Or  by  her  wordes  apperceive,  that  she 
Were  changed,  but  he  never  coud 

hire  finde. 
But  ever  in  one  ylike  sad  and  kinde. 

As  glad,  as  humble,   as  besy  in 

service 
And  eke  in  love,  as  she  was  wont  to 

be, 
Was  she  to  him,  in  every  manner  wise ; 
Ne  of  her  doughter  not  a  word  spake 

she : 
Non  accident  for  non  adversitee 
Was    seen    in   her,    ne    never   her 

doughter' s  name 
Ne  nevened  she,  for  emest  ne  for 

game. 

PARS   QUARTA. 

In  this  estat  ther  passed  ben  foure 

yere 
Er  she  with  childe  was,  but,  as  God 

wold, 
A  knave  childe  she    bare  by  this 

Waltere 
Ful  gracious,  and  fair  for  to  behoW : 
And  whan  that  folk  it  to  his  fader 

told. 
Not  only  he,  but  all  his  contree  mery 
Was  for  this  childe,  and  God  they 

thonke  and  hery. 

Whan  it  was  two  yere  old,  and 
from  the  brest 
Departed  of  his  norice,  on  a  day 
This  markis  caughte  yet  another  lest 
To  tempte  his  wif  yet  ofter,  if  he 

may. 
O !  nedeles  was  she  tempted  in  assay. 
But    wedded    men    ne    connen    no 

mesure. 
Whan  that  they  finde  a  patient  crea- 
ture. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


395 


"Wif,"    quod    this    markis,    "ye 

hail  herd  or  this     ■ 
My  peple  sikely  beren  our  mariage, 
And  namely  sin  my  son  yboren  is, 
Now  is  it  worse  than  ever  in  all  our 

age: 
The  murmur  sleth  myn  herte  and 

my  corage, 
For  to  mine  eres  cometh  the  vols  so 

smerte, 
That  it  wel  nie  destroyed  hath  my 

herte. 

"  Now  say  they  thus,  whan  Walter 

is  agon, 
Than  shal  the  blood  of  Janicle  suc- 

cede. 
And  ben  our  lord,  for  other  han  we 

none : 
Swiche  wordes  sayn  my  peple,  it  is 

no  drede, 
Wel    ought    I    of    swiche    murmur 

taken  hede. 
For  certainly  I  drede  al  swiche  sen- 
tence. 
Though  they  not   plainen  in  myn 

audience. 

"I  wolde  live  in  pees,  if  that  I 

might : 
Wherfore  I  am  disposed  utterly, 
As  I  his  suster  served  er  by  night. 
Right  so    thinke    I    to    serve    him 

prively. 
This  warne  I  you,  that  ye  not  sod- 

enly 
Out  of   yourself   for  no  wo  shuld 

outraie, 
Beth  patient,  and  thereof  I  you  praie/' 

"I  have,"  quod  she,  "sayd  thus 

and  ever  shal, 
I  wol    no    thing,   ne  n'ill  no  thing 

certain, 
But  as  you  list :  not  greveth  me  at  al, 
Though  that  my  doughter  and  my 

sone  be  slain 
At  your  commandement :  that  is  to 

sain, 
I  have  not  had  no  part  of  children 

twein. 
But  first  sikenesse,  and  after  wo  and 

peine. 

"  Ye  ben  my  lord,  doth  with  your 
owen  thing 
Right  as  you  list,  asketh  no  rede  of 
me: 


For  as  I  left  at  home  al  my  clothing 
Whan  I  came  first  to  you,  right  so 

(quod  she) 
Left  I  my  will  and  al  my  libertee. 
And  toke  your  clothing :  wherfore  I 

you  prey. 
Doth  your  plesance,   I  wol    youre 

lust  obey. 

"  And  certes,  if  I  hadde  prescience 
Your  will  to  know,  er  ye  your  lust 

me  told, 
I  wold  it  do  withouten  negligence : 
But  now  I  wote  your  lust,  and  what 

ye  wold, 
All  your  plesance  ferme  and  stable 

I  hold. 
For  wist  I  that  my  deth  might  do 

you  ese. 
Right  gladly  wold    I   dien,  you  to 

plese. 

"  Deth  may  not  maken  no  compari- 
soun 

Unto  your  love."  And  whan  this 
markis  say 

The  Constance  of  his  wif,  he  cast 
adoun 

His  eyen  two,  and  wondreth  how 
she  may 

In  patience  suffer  al  this  array : 

And  forth  he  goth  with  drery  con- 
tenance. 

But  to  his  herte  it  was  ful  gret  ples- 
ance. 

This  ugly  sergeant  in  the  same 
wise 

That  he  her  doughter  caughte,  right 
so  he 

(Or  werse,  if  men  can  any  werse  de- 
vise) 

Hath  hent  her  son,  that  ful  was  of 
beautee : 

And  ever  in  on  so  patient  was  she, 

That  she  no  chere  made  of  hevi- 
nesse, 

But  kist  her  sone  and  after  gan  it 
blesse. 

Save  this  she  praied  him,  if  that 

he  might. 
Her  litel   sone    he    wold    in    erth^ 

grave. 
His  tendre  limmes,  delicat  to  sight. 
Fro  foules  and  fro  bestes  for  to  save. 
But  she  non  answer  of  him  mighte 

have, 


396 


PARNASSUS. 


He  went  his  way,  as  liim  no  thing 

ne  rought, 
But    to    Boloigne    he    tendrely   it 

brought. 

This  markis  wondreth  ever  lenger 

the  more 
Upon  her  patience,  and  if  that  he 
Ne  hadde  sothly  knowen  therbefore. 
That  parfitly  her  children  loved  she, 
He  wold  han  wend  that  of  som  sub- 

tiltee 
And  of  malice,  or  for  cruel  corage, 
That  she  had  suffred  this  with  sad 

visage. 

But  wel  he  knew,  that  next  him- 
self, certain 

She  loved  her  children  best  in  every 
wise. 

But  now  of  women  wold  I  asken 
fayn. 

If  thise  assaies  mighten  not  suffise ; 

What  coud  a  sturdy  husbond  more 
devise 

To  preve  her  wifhood,  and  her  sted- 
fastnesse. 

And  he  continuing  ever  in  sturdi- 
nesse  ? 

But  ther  be  folk  of  such  condi- 
tion, 

That,  whan  they  han  a  certain  pur- 
pos  take. 

They  can  not  stint  of  their  inten- 
tion, 

But,  right  as  they  were  bounden  to 
a  stake, 

They  wol  not  of  their  firste  purpose 
slake : 

Right  so  this  markis  fully  hath  pur- 
posed 

To  tempt  his  wif,  as  he  was  first  dis- 
posed. 

He  waiteth,  if  by  word  or  conte- 
nance 

That  she  to  him  was  changed  of 
corage : 

But  never  coud  he  finden  variance. 

She  was  ay  one  in  herte  and  in  vis- 
age. 

And  ay  the  further  that  she  was  in 
age. 

The  more  trewe  (if  that  were  possi- 
ble) 

She  was  to  him  in  love,  and  more 
penible. 


For  which  it  semed  thus,  that  of 
them  two 

Ther  was  but  one  will ;  for  as  Wal- 
ter lest, 

The  same  lust  was  hire  plesance  also ; 

And  God  be  thanked,  all  fell  for  the 
best. 

She  shewed  wel,  for  no  worldly  un- 
rest 

A  wif,  as  of  hirself,  no  thing  ne 
sholde 

Wille  in  effect,  but  as  her  husbond 
wolde. 

The  sclandre  of  Walter  wonder 

wide  spradde. 
That  of  a  cruel  herte  he  wikkedly, 
For  he  a  poure  woman  wedded  hadde, 
Hath    murdred    both    his    children 

prively : 
Such    murmur    was    among    them 

comunly. 
No  wonder  is :  for  to  the  peples'  ere 
Ther  came  no  word,  but  that  they 

murdred  were. 

For  which  ther  as  his  people  ther- 
before 
Had  loved  him  wel,  the  sclandre  of 

his  diffame 
Made  them  that  they  him  hateden 

therfore : 
To  ben  a  murdrour  is  an  hateful 

name. 
But  natheles,  for  ernest  ne  for  game, 
He  of  his  cruel  purpos  n'olde  stente. 
To  tempt   his  wif  was  sette  all  his 
entente. 

Whan  that  his  doughter  twelf  yere 

was  of  age. 
He  to  the  court  of  Rome,  in  subtil 

wise 
Enformed  of  his  will,  sent  his  mes- 


Commanding  him,  swiche  billes  to 

devise. 
As  to  his  cruel  purpos  may  suffise, 
How  that  the  pope,  as  for  his  peples 

rest. 
Bade  him  to  wed  another,  if  him  lest. 

I  say  he  bade,  they  shulden  con- 

trefete 
The  popes  bulles,  making  mention 
That  he  hath  leve  his  firste  wif  to 

lete. 
As  by  the  popes  dispensation, 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


397 


To  stinten  rancour  and  dissension 
Betwix  his   peple    and    him:    thus 

spake  the  bull, 
The  which  they  han  published  at 

the  full. 

The  rude  peple,  as  no  wonder  is, 
Wenden  ful  wel,   that  it  had  ben 

right  so : 
But  whan  thise  tidings  came  to  Gri- 

sildis, 
I  deme  that  her  herte  was  ful  of  wo ; 
But  she  ylike  sad  for  evermo 
Disposed  was,  this  humble  creature, 
The  adversitee  of  fortune  al  to  en- 
dure ; 

Abiding  ever  his  lust  and  his  ples- 
ance, 
To  whom  that  she  was  yeven,  herte 

and  al. 
As  to  hire  veray  worldly  suffisance. 
But  shortly  if  this  storie  tell  I  shal, 
This  markis  writen  hath  in  special 
A  lettre,  in  which  he  sheweth  his  en- 
tente, 
And  secretly  he  to  Boioigne  it  sente, 

To  the  erl  of  Pavie,  which  that 
hadde  tho 
Wedded  his  suster,  prayed  he  spe- 
cially 
To  bringen  home  agein  his  children 

two 
In  honourable  estat  al  openly : 
But  one  thing  he  him  prayed  utterly. 
That  he  to  no  wight,  though  men 

wold  enquere, 
Shulde  not  tell  whos  children  that 
they  were. 

But  say,  the  maiden  shuld  ywedded 
be 
Unto  the  markis  of  Saluces  anon. 
And  as  this  erl  was  prayed,  so  did  he. 
For  at  day  sette  he  on  his  way  is  gon 
Toward  Saluces,  and  lordes  many  on 
In  rich  arraie,  this  maiden  for  to  gide, 
Her  yonge  brotlier  riding  hire  beside. 

Arraied  was  toward  lier  mariage 
This  fresshe  maiden,  ful  of  gemmes 

clere. 
Her  brother,  which  that  seven  yere 

was  of  age, 
Arraied  eke  ful  fresh  in  his  manere : 
And  thus  in  gret  noblesse  and  with 

glade  chere 


Toward  Saluces  shaping  their  jour- 
nay 

Fro  day  to  day  they  riden  in  their 
way. 

PABS  QUINTA. 

Among  al  this,  after  his  wicked 
usage, 
This  markis  yet  his  wif  to  tempten 

more 
To  the  uttereste  proof  of  hire  corage, 
Fully  to  have  experience  and  lore. 
If  that  she  were  as  stedefast  as  be- 
fore. 
He  on  a  day  in  open  audience 
Ful    boistously  hath  said    her  this 
sentence : 

"Certes,  Grisilde,  I  had  ynough 

plesance 
To  han  you  to  my   wif,   for  your 

goodnesse. 
And  for  your  trouthe,  and  for  your 

obeysance. 
Not  for  your  linage,  ne  for  your  rich- 

esse. 
But  now  know  I  in  veray  sothfast- 

nesse,  * 

That  in  gret  lordship,  if  I  me  wel 

avise, 
Ther  is  gret  servitude  in  sondry  wise. 

"  I  may  not  do,  as  every  ploughman 
may: 

My  peple  me  constreineth  for  to 
take 

Another  wif,  and  crien  day  by  day ; 

And  eke  the  pope  rancour  for  to 
slake 

Consenteth  it,  that  dare  I  under- 
take : 

And  trewely,  thus  moche  I  wol  you 
say. 

My  newe  wif  is  coming  by  the  way. 

"Be  strong  of  herte,  and  voide 
anon  hire  place, 

And  thilke  dower  that  ye  broughten 
me 

Take  it  agen,  I  grant  it  of  my  grace, 

Returneth  to  your  fadres  hous, 
(quod  he) 

No  man  may  alway  have  prosperitee. 

With  even  herte  I  rede  you  ta  en- 
dure 

The  stroke  of  fortune,  or  of  aven- 
ture." 


398 


PARNASSUS. 


Aiid  she  agen  answerd  in  pa- 
tience : 

"My  lord,"  quod  she,  "  I  wote,  and 
wist  ahvay. 

How  that  betwixen  your  magnifi- 
cence 

And  my  poverte  no  wight  ne  can  ne 
may 

Maken  comparison,  it  is  no  nay ; 

I  ne  held  me  never  digne  in  no  man- 
ere 

To  be  your  wif,  ne  yet  your  cham- 
berere. 

"And  in  this  hous,  therye  me  lady 

made, 
(The  highe  God  take  I  for  my  wit- 

nesse. 
And  all  so  wisly  he  my  soule  glad) 
I  never  held  me  lady  ne  maistresse, 
But  humble  servant  to  your  worthi- 

nesse. 
And  ever  shal,  while  that  my  lif  may 

dure, 
Aboven  every  worldly  creature. 

"  That  ye  so  longe  of  your  benigni- 

tee 
Han  holden  me  in  honour  and  no- 

bley, 
Wheras  I  was  not  worthy  for  to  be. 
That  thanke  I  God  and  you,  to  whom 

I  prey 
Foryelde  it  you,  ther  is  no  more  to 

sey: 
Unto  my  fader  gladly  wol  I  wende, 
And  with  him  dwell  unto  my  lives 

ende; 

"Ther  I  was  fostred  of  a  childe 

ful  smal, 
Till  I  be  dead  my  life  there  will  I 

lead, 
A  widew  clene  in  body,  herte  and  al. 
For  sith  I  gg.ve  to  you  my  maiden- 

hede, 
And  am  your  trewe  wif,  it  is  no  drede, 
God  shilde  such  a  lord^s  wif  to  take 
Another  man  to  husbond  or  to  make. 

"  And  of  your  newe  wif,  God  of 

his  grace 
So  graunte  you  wele  and  prosperite : 
For  I  wol  gladly  yelden  her  my  place. 
In  which  that  I  was  blisful  wont  to 

be. 
For  sith   it   liketh  you,    my    lord, 

(quod  she) 


That  whilom  weren  all  myn  berths 

rest. 
That  I  shal  gon,  I  wot  go  whan  you 

lest. 

"  But  ther  as  ye  me  profer  swiche 
dowaire 

As  I  first  brought,  it  is  wel  in  my 
mind, 

It  were  my  wretched  clothes,  noth- 
ing faire, 

The  which  to  me  were  hard  now  for 
to  find. 

0  goode  God !  how  gentil  and  how 

kind 

Ye  semed  by  your  speche  and  your 
visage. 

The  day  that  maked  was  oure  mar- 
riage ! 

"But  soth  is  said,  algate  I  find  it 

trewe, 
For  in  effect  it  preved  is  on  me. 
Love  is  not  old,  as  whan  that  it  is 

newe. 
But  certes,  lord,  for  non  adversitee 
To  dien  in  this  cas,  it  shal  not  be 
That  ever  in  word  or  werke  I  shal 

repent. 
That  I  you  yave  min  herte  in  whole 

entent. 

"  My  lord,  ye  wot,  that  in  my  fa- 
ther's place 

Ye  did  me  stripe  out  of  my  poure 
wede. 

And  richely  ye  clad  me  of  your 
grace ; 

To  you  brought  I  nought  elles  out 
of  drede. 

But  faith  and  nakednesse,  and  mai- 
denhede ; 

And  here  agen  your  clothing  I  re- 
store. 

And  eke  your  wedding  ring  for  ever- 
more. 

"The  remenant  of  your  jeweles 

redy  be 
Within  your  chambre,  I  dare  it  safly 

sain; 
Naked    out   of    my    father's    hous 

(quod  she) 

1  came,  and  naked  I  mote  turne  again. 
All  your  plesance  wolde  I  folwefain : 
But  yet  I  hope  it  be  not  your  entent, 
That  I  smockless  out  of  your  paleis 

went. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


399 


"  Ye  coude  not  do  so  dishonest  a 

thing, 
That  thill<:e  wombe,  in  which  your 

children  lay, 
Shulde  before  the  peple,  in  my  walk- 
ing, 
Be  seen  al  bare:  wherfore    I    you 

pray 
Let  me  not  like  a  worme  go  by  the 

way  : 
Remembre  you,  min  owen  lord  so 

dere, 
I  was  your  wif,  though  I  unworthy 

were. 

"  Wherfore  in  guerdon  of  my  maid- 

enhede. 
Which  that  I  brought  and  not  agen 

I  here, 
As  vouchesauf   to  yeve  me  to  my 

mede 
But  swiche  a  smok  as  I  was  wont  to 

were, 
That  I  therwith  may  wrie  the  wombe 

of  her 
That  was  your  wif :  and  here  I  take 

my  leve 
Of  you,  min  owen  lord,  lest  I  you 

greve." 

"  The  smok,"  quod  he,  "  that  thou 

hast  on  thy  bake, 
Let  it  be  still,  and  bere  it  forth  with 

thee." 
But  wel  unnethes  thilke  word  he 

spake, 
But  went  his  way  for  routhe  and  for 

pitee. 
Before  the  folk  hireselven  stripeth 

she. 
And  in  her  smok,  with  foot  and  hed 

al  bare, 
Toward  her  fadres  hous  forth  is  she 

fare. 

The  folk  her  folwen  weping  in  hir 
wey, 

And  fortune  ay  they  cursen  as  they 
gon: 

But  she  fro  weping  kept  her  eyen 
drey, 

Ne  in  this  time  word  ne  spake  she 
non. 

Her  fader,  that  this  tiding  herd 
anon, 

Curseth  the  day  and  time,  that  na- 
ture 

Shope  him  to  ben  a  lives  creature. 


For  out  of  doute  this  olde  poure 

man 

Was  ever  in  suspect  of  her  mariage : 

For  ever  he  denied,  sin  it  first  began^ 

That  whan  the  lord  fulfilled  had  his 

corage, 
Him  wolde  thinke  it  were  a  dispar- 
age 
To  his  estat,  so  lowe  for  to  alight. 
And  voiden  her  as  sone  as  ever  he 
might. 

Agein  his  doughter  hastily  goth  he, 

(For  he  by  noise  of  folk  knew  her 
coming) 

And  with  her  olde  cote,  as  it  might 
be. 

He  covereth  her  ful  sorwefully  wep- 
ing: 

But  on  her  body  might  he  it  not 
bring, 

For  rude  was  the  cloth,  and  more  of 
age 

By  dales  fele  than  at  her  mariage. 

Thus  with  her  fader  for  a  certain 
space 
Dwelleth  this  flour  of  wifly  patience. 
That  nother  by  her  wordes  ne  her 

face, 
Beforn  the  folk,  ne  eke  in  her  ab- 
sence, 
Ne  shewed  she  that  her  was  don 

offence, 
Ne  of  her  high  estat  no  remembrance 
Ne  hadde  she,  as  by  hire  contenance. 

No  wonder  is,  for  in  her  gret  estat 
Her  gost  was  ever  in  pleine  humili- 

tee; 
No  tendre  mouth,  no  herte  delicat. 
No  pompe,  no  semblant  of  realtee ; 
But  ful  of  patient  benignitee. 
Discrete,  and  prideles,  ay  honoura- 
ble. 
And  to  her  husbond  ever  meke  and 
stable. 

Men  speke  of  Job,  and  most  for 

his  humblesse. 
As  clerkes,  whan  hem  list,  can  wel 

endite. 
Namely  of  men,  but  as  in  sothfast- 

nesse. 
Though  clerkes  preisen  women  but 

a  lite, 
Ther  can  no  man  in  humblesse  him 

acquite 


400 


PAENASSUS. 


As  woman  can,  ne  can  be  half  so 

trevve 
As   women  ben,  but  it  be  falle  of 

newe. 

PAKS   SEXTA. 

Fro  Boloigne  is  this  erl  of  Pavie 

come, 
Of    which  the  fame  up  sprang  to 

more  and  lesse : 
And  to  the  peples  eres  all  and  some 
Was  couth  eke,  that  a  newe  mar- 

kisesse 
He  with   him    brought,   in    swiche 

pomp  and  richesse. 
That    never    was     ther    seen    with 

mannes  eye 
So  noble  array  in  al  West  Lumbardie. 

The  markis,  which  that  shope  and 

knew  all  this, 
Er  that  this  erl  was  come,  sent  his 

message 
For  thilke  poure  sely  Grisildis ; 
And  she  with  humble  herte  and  glad 

visage, 
Not  with  no  swollen  thought  in  her 

corage. 
Came  at  his  best,  and  on  her  knees 

her  sette. 
And  reverently  and  wisely  she  him 

grette. 

"Grisilde,"  (quod  he)  "my  will  is 

utterly, 
This  maiden,  that  shal  wedded  be  to 

me. 
Received  be  to-morwe  as  really 
As  it  possible  is  in  myn  hous  to  be : 
And  eke  that  every  wight  in    his 

degree 
Have  his  estat  in  sitting  and  service, 
And  high  plesance,   as  I  can  best 

devise. 

"  I  have  no  woman  suffisant  certain 

The  chambres  for  to  array  in  ordi- 
nance 

After  my  lust,  and  therfore  wolde 
I  fain, 

That  thin  were  all  swiche  manere 
governance : 

Thou  knowest  eke  of  old  all  my 
plesance ; 

Though  thin  array  be  bad,  and  evil 
besey. 

Do  thou  thy  devoir  at  the  leste  wey. 


Not  only,  lord,   that  I  am    glad 

(quod  she) 
To  don  your  lust,  but  I  desire  also 
You  for  to  serve  and  plese  in  my 

degree, 
Withouten  fainting,  and  shal  evermo : 
Ne  never  for  no  wele,  ne  for  no  wo, 
Ne  shal  the  gost  within  myn  herte 

stente 
To  love  you  best  with  all  my  trewe 

entente." 

And  with  that  word  she  gan  the 

hous  to  dight. 
And  tables  for  to  sette,  and  beddes 

make. 
And  peined  hire  to  don  all  that  she 

might. 
Praying  the  chambereres  for  Goddes' 

sake 
To  hasten  hem,  and  faste  swepe  and 

shake. 
And  she  the  moste  serviceable  of  all 
Hath  every  chambre  arraied,  and  his 

hall. 

Abouten  undern  gan  this  erl  alight, 
That  with  him  brought  thise  noble 

children  tM^ey; 
For  which  the  peple  ran  to  see  the 

sight 
Of  hir  arrayed,  so  richely  besey : 
And  than  at  erst  amonges  them  they 

sey, 
That    Walter  was  no  fool,  though 

that  him  lest 
To  change  his  wif ;  for  it  was  for  the 

best. 

For  she  is  fairer,  as  they  demen 

all. 
Than  is  Grisilde,  and  more  tendre 

of  age,  ^ 
And  fairer  fruit  betwene  hem  shulde 

fall, 
And    more    plesant   for   hire   high 

linage : 
Hire  brother  eke  so  faire   was    of 

visage, 
That  hem  to  seen  the  peple  hath 

caught  plesance. 
Commending  now  the  markis  gover- 
nance. 

O  stormy  peple;  unsad  and  ever 
untrewe. 
And  undiscrete,  and  changing  as  a 
fane, 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


401 


Delighting  ever  in  rombel  that  is 

newe, 
For  like  the  mone  waxen  ye  and 

wane : 
Ay  ful   of  clapping,  dere  ynough  a 

jane, 
Your  dome  is  fals,  your  Constance 

evil  preveth, 
A  ful  gret  fool  is  he  that  on  you 

leveth. 

Thus  saiden  sade  folk  in  that  citee, 
Whan  that  the  peple  gased  up  and 

doun : 
For  they  were  glad,   right  for  the 

noveltee, 
To  have  a  newe  lady  of  hir  toun. 
No  more  of  this  make  I  now  men- 

tioun, 
But  to  Grisilde  agen  I  wol  me  dresse, 
And  telle  hire  Constance,  and  hire 

besinesse. 

Ful  besy  was   Grisilde    in    every 

thing, 
That  to  the  feste  was  appertinent; 
Right  naught  was  she  abaist  of  hire 

clothing. 
Though  it  were  rude,  and  somdel  eke 

to-rent, 
But  with  glad  chere  to  the  yate  is 

went 
With  other  folk,  to  grete  the  mar- 

kisesse, 
And    after    that    doth    forth    hire 

besinesse. 

With  so  glad  chere  his  gestes  she 
receiveth, 

And  conningly  everich  in  his  degree, 

That  no  defaute  no  man  apper- 
ceiveth. 

But  ay  they  wondren  what  she 
mighte  be, 

That  in  so  poure  array  was  for  to 
see, 

And  coude  swiche  honour  and  rever- 
ence, 

And  worthily  they  preisen  hire  pru- 
dence. 

In  all  this  mene  while  she  ne  stent 
This  maide  and  eke  hire  brother  to 

commend 
With  all  hire  herte  in  ful  benigne 

entent. 
So  wel,  that  no  man  coud  hire  preise 
amend : 

26 


But  at  the  last  whan  that  thise  lordes 

wend 
To  sitten  doun  to  mete,  he  gaii  to  call 
Grisilde,  as  she  was  besy  in  the  hall. 

"  Grisilde,  (quod  he,  as  it  were  in 

his  play) 
How  liketh  thee  my  wif,  and  hire 

beautee?" 
''Right  wel,  my  lord,  (quod  she,)  for 

in  good  fay, 
A  fairer  saw  I  never  non  than  she : 
I  pray  to  God  yeve  you  prosperitee ; 
And  so  I  hope,  that  he  wol  to  you 

send 
Plesance   ynough    unto    your    lives 

end." 

"  O  thing  beseche  I  you  and  warne 

also, 
That  ye  ne  prikke  with  no  turment- 

ing 
This  tendre  maiden  as  ye  han  do  mo : 
For  she  is  fostred  in  her  norishing 
More  tendrely,  and  to  my  supposing 
She  mighte  not  adversitee  endure, 
As  coude  a  poure  fostred  creature." 

And  when  this  Walter  saw  her 

patience. 
Her  glade  chere,  and  no  malice  at 

all. 
And   he   so   often    hadde    her   don 

offence. 
And  she  ay  sade  and  constant  as  a 

wall. 
Continuing  ever  her  innocence  over 

all, 
This    sturdy  markis  gan  his  herte 

dresse 
To  rewe  upon  her  wifly  stedefast- 

nesse. 

"  This  is  ynough,   Grisilde   min, 

(quod  he,) 
Be  now  no  more  agast,  ne  evil  apaid, 
I  have  thy  faith  and  thy  benignitee, 
As  wel  as  ever  woman  was,  assaid 
I  gret  estat,  and  pourelich  arraied : 
Now  know  I,  dere  wif,  thy  stedefast- 

nesse. 
And  her  in  armes  toke,  and  gan  to 

kesse. 

And  she  for  wonder  toke  of  it  no 
kepe. 
She  herde  not  what  thing  he  to  her 
said: 


402 


PARNASSUS. 


She  ferde  as  she  had  stert  out  of  a 

slepe, 
Til  she  out  of  her  masednesse  abraid. 
"  Grisilde,  (quod  he,)  by  God  that 

for  us  deid, 
Thou  art  my  wif ,  non  other  I  ne  have, 
Ne  never  had,  as  God  my  soule  save. 

"This  is  thy doughter,  which  thou 
hast  supposed 
To  be  my  wif ;  that  other  faithfully 
Shal  be  min  heir,  as  I  have  ay  dis- 
posed ; 
Thou  bare  hem  of  thy  body  trewely : 
At  Boloigne  have  I  kept  hem  prively : 
Take  hem  agen,  for  now  maist  thou 

not  say, 
That  thou  hast  lorn  non  of  thy  chil- 
dren tway. 

"  And  folk,   that  otherwise    han 

said  of  me, 
I  warne  hem  wel,  that  I  have  don 

this  dede 
For  no  malice,  ne  for  no  crueltee. 
But  for  to  assay  in  thee  thy  woman- 

hede: 
And  not  to  slee my  children  (God  for- 

bede) 
But  for  to  kepe  hem  prively  and  still. 
Til  I  thy  purpos  knew,  and  all  thy 

will." 

Whan  she  this  herd  aswoune  doun 

she  falleth 
For  pitous  joye,  and  after  her  swoun- 

ing 
She  both  her  yonge  children  to  her 

calloth, 
And  in  her  armes  pitously  weping 
Embraceth  hem,  and  tendrely  kissing 
Ful  like  a  moder  with  her  salte  teres 
She  bathed  both  her  visage  and  her 

heres. 

O,  which  a  pitous  thing  it  was  to  see 
Her  swouning,  and  her  humble  vols 

to  here  I 
"  Grand  mercij,  lord,  God  thank  it 

you  (quod  she) 
That  ye  han  saved  me  my  children 

dere: 
Now  rekke  I  never  to  be  ded  right 

here. 
Sin  I  stond  in  your  love,  and  in  your 

grace, 
No  force  of  deth,  ne  whan  my  spirit 

pace. 


"  O  tendre,  o  dere,  o  yonge  children 

mine. 
Your  woful  mother  wened  stedfastly, 
That  cruel  houndes,   or  some  foul 

vermine 
Had  eten  you ;  but  God  of  his  mercy, 
And  your  benigne  fader  tendrely 
Hath  don  you  kepe:"   and  in  that 

same  stound 
Al    sodenly    she    swapt    adoun    to 

ground. 

And  in  her  swough  so  sadly  hold- 

eth  she 
Her  children  two,  whan  she  gan  hem 

embrace, 
That  with  gret  sleight  and  gret  diffi- 

cultee 
The  children  from  her  arm  they  gan 

arrace ; 
O!  many  a  tere  on  many  a  pitous 

face 
Doun  ran   of  hem  that  stoden  her 

beside, 
Unnethe    abouten    her  might  they 

abide. 

Walter  her  gladeth,  and  her  sorwe 

slaketh, 
She    riseth    up    abashed    from  her 

trance. 
And  every  wight  her  joye  and  feste 

maketh. 
Til  she  hath  caught  agen  her  conte- 

nance. 
Walter  hire  doth  so  faithfully  ples- 

ance, 
Thet  it  was  deintee  for  to  seen  the 

chere 
Betwix  hem  two,  sin  they  ben  met 

in  fere. 

Thise  ladies,  whan  that  they  her 

time  sey, 
Han  taken  her,  and  into  chambre  gon, 
And  stripen  her  out  of  her  rude  arrey. 
And  in  a  cloth  of  gold  that  brighte 

shone. 
With  a  coroune  of  many  a  riche  stone 
Upon  her  lied,  they  into  hall  her 

broughte : 
And  ther  she  was  honoured  as  her 

ought. 

Thus  hath  this  pitous  day  a  blis- 
f ul  end ; 
For  every  man,   and  woman,  doth 
his  might 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


403 


This  day  in  mirth  and  revel  to  dis- 
pend, 

Til  on  the  welkin  shone  the  sterres 
bright : 

For  more  solempne  in  every  mannes 
sight 

This  feste  was,  and  greter  of  cost- 
age, 

Than  was  the  revel  of  her  mariage. 

Ful  many  a  yere  in  high  prosperi- 

tee 
Liven  thise  two  in  concord  and  in 

rest, 
And  richely  his  doughter  maried  he 
Unto  a  lord,  on  of  the  worthiest 
Of  all  Itaille,  and  than  in  pees  and 

rest 
His    wives  fader    in  his    court   he 

kepeth. 
Til  that    the  soule  out  of  his  body 

crepeth. 

His  sone  succedeth  in  his  heritage. 
In  rest  and  pees,  after  his  fadres 

day: 
And  fortunat  was  eke  in  mariage, 
Al  put  he  not  his  wif  in  gret  assay : 
This  world  is  not  so  strong,  it  is  no 

nay. 
As  it  hath  ben  in  olde  times  yore. 
And  herkneth,   what   this    auctour 

saith  therfore. 

This  story  is   said,  not  for  that 

wives  shuld 
Folwe  Grisilde,  as  in  humilitee. 
For  it    were    importable,   tho  they 

wold; 
But  for  that  every  wight  in  his  degree 
Shulde  be  constant  in  adversitee, 
As  was   Grisilde,   therfore    Petrark 

writeth 
This  storie,  which  with  high  stile  he 

enditeth. 

For  sith  a  woman  was  so  patient 
Unto  a  mortal  man,  wel  more  we 

ought 
Receiven  all  in  gree  that  God  us  sent. 
For  gret  skill  is  he  preve  that  he 

wrought 
But  he  ne  tempteth  no  man  that  he 

bought 
As  saith  seint  Jame,  if  ye  his  pistell 

rede ; 
He  preveth  folk  al   day,   it    is    no 

drede : 


And  suffreth  us,  as  for  our  exer- 
cise, 

With  sharpe  scourges  of  adversitee 

Ful  often  to  be  bete  in  sondry  wise ; 

Not  for  to  know  our  will,  for  certes 
he 

Or  we  were  borne,  knew  all  our 
f reeletee ; 

And  for  our  best  is  all  his  govern- 
ance; 

Let  us  than  live  in  vertuous  suffrance. 

But  one  word,  lordings,  herkeneth, 
ere  I  go : 
It    were  ful    hard    to    finden    now 


In  all  a  toun  Grisildes  three  or  two : 
For  if  that  they  were  put  to  swiche 

assayes. 
The  gold  of  hem  hath  now  so  bad 

alayes 
With  bras,  that  though  the  coine  be 

faire  at  eye. 
It  wolde  rather  brast  atwo  than  plie. 

For  which  here,  for  the  wives  love 

of  Bathe, 
Whos  lif  and  al  hire  secte  God  main- 

tene 
In  high  maistrie,  and  elles  were  it 

scathe, 
I  wol  with  lusty  herte  fresshe  and 

grene. 
Say  you  a  song  to  gladen  you,   I 

wene: 
And  let  us  stint  of  emestful  matere. 
Herkneth  my  song,  that  saith  in  this 

manere. 

Grisilde  is  ded,  and  eke  her  pa- 
tience. 
And  both  at  ones  buried  in  Itaille :    I 
For  which  I  crie  in  open  audience. 
No    wedded    man    so    hardy  be  to 

assaille 
His  wives  patience,  in  trust  to  find 
Grisildes,  for  in  certain  he  shal  faille. 

O  noble  wives,  ful  of  high  pru- 
dence, 
Let  non  humilitee  your  tonges  naile : 
Ne  let  no  clerk  have  cause  or  dili- 
gence 
To  write  of  you  a  storie  of  swiche 

mervaille. 
As  of  Grisildis  patient  and  kinde, 
Lest  Chichevache  you  swalwe  in  her 
entraille. 


404 


PARNASSUS. 


Folweth    ecco,    that    holdeth    no 

silence, 
But  ever  answereth  at  the  coimtre- 

taille : 
Betli  not  bedaffed  for  your  innocence, 
But  sharply  taketh  on  you  the  gov- 

ernaille : 
Emprenteth  wel  this  lesson  in  your 

minde, 
Forcomun  profit,  sith  it  may  availle. 

Ye  archewives,   stondeth    ay    at 

defence. 
Sin  ye  be  strong,  as  is  a  gret  camaille, 
Ne  suffreth  not,  that  men  do  you 

offence. 

sclendre 

bataille, 

Beth  egre  as  is  a  tigre  yond  in  Inde ; 
Ay  clappeth  as  a  mill,  I  you  coun- 

saille 

Ne  drede  hem  not,  doth  hem  no 

reverence. 
For  though  thin  husbond  armed  be 

in  maille, 
The  arwes  of  thy  crabbed  eloquence 
Shal  perce  his  brest,   and  eke  his 

aventaille : 
In   jalousie    I   rede  eke  thou  him 

binde, 
And  thou  shalt  make  him  couche  as 

doth  a  quaille. 

If  thou  be  faire,  ther  folk  ben  in 

presence 
Shew  thou  thy  visage,  and  thin  ap- 

paraille: 
If  thou  be  foule,  be  free  of  thy  dis- 

pence, 
To  get  the  f  rendes  ay  do  thy  travaille : 
Be  ay  of  chere  as  light  as  lefe  on 

linde. 
And  let  him  care,  and  wepe,   and 

wringe,  and  waille. 

Chauceb. 


RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS 
MAY. 

To  the  belfry,  one  by  one,  went  the 
ringers  from  the  sun, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  oldest  ringer  said,  "Ours is 
music  for  the  Dead, 
When  the  rebecks  are  all  done." 


Six  abeles  i'  the  churchyard  grow  on 
the  northside  in  a  row, 

I'oll  slowly. 
And  the  shadows  of  their  tops  rock 
across  the  little  slopes 
Of  the  grassy  graves  below. 

On  the  south  side  and  the  west,  a 
small  river  runs  in  haste. 

Toll  slowly. 
And  between  the  river  flowing  and 
the  fair  green  trees  a-growing 
Do  the  dead  lie  at  their  rest. 

On    the    east  I  sate    that  day,  up 
against  a  willow  gray : 

Toll  slowly. 
Through  the  rain  of  willow-branches, 
I  could  see  the  low  hill-ranges. 
And  the  river  on  its  way. 

There  I  sate  beneath  the  tree,  and 
the  bell  tolled  solemnly. 

Toll  slowly. 

Wliile  the  trees'  and  river's  voices 

flowed    between    the    solemn 

noises,  — 

Yet  death  seemed  more  loud  to 

me. 

There  I  read  this   ancient  rhyme, 

while  the  bell  did  all  the  time 

Toll  slowly. 

And  the  solemn  knell  fell  in  with 

the  tale  of  life  and  sin. 

Like  a  rhythmic  fate  sublime. 

THE  EHYME. 

Broad  the  forest  stood  (I  read)  on 
the  hills  of  Linteged  — 

Toll  slowly. 

And  three  hundred  years  had  stood 

mute  adown  each  hoary  wood. 

Like  a  full  heart  having  prayed. 

And  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and 
the  little  birds  sang  west. 

Toll  slowly. 
And  but  little  thought  was  theirs,  of 
the  silent  antique  years, 
In  the  building  of  their  nest. 

Down  the  vSun  dropped  large  and  red, 

on  the  towers  of  Linteged,  — 

Toll  slou'ly. 

Lance  and  spear  upon   the  lieic:lit, 

bristling  strange  in  fiery  iiiJit, 

While  the  castle  stood  in  shade. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


405 


There,  the    castle  stood  up  black, 

with  the  red  sun  at  its  back,  — 

Toll  slowly. 

Like  a  sullen  smouldering  pyre,  with 

a  top  that  flickers  tire. 

When  the  wind  is  on  its  track. 

And  five  hundred  archers  tall  did 
besiege  the  castle  wall, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  castle,   seethed  in  blood, 
fourteen  days  and  nights  had 
stood. 
And  to-night  was  near  its  fall. 

Yet  thereunto,  blind  to  doom,  three 
months  since,  a  bride  did 
come,  —  Toll  slowly. 

One  who  proudly  trod  the    floors, 
and   softly  whispered  in  the 
doors, 
"May   good    angels  bless    our 
home." 

Oh,  a  bride  of  queenly  eyes,  with  a 
front  of  constancies,  — 

Toll  slowly. 

Oh,   a  bride    of    cordial    mouth,  — 

where  the    untired    smile  of 

youth 

Did  light  outward  its  own  sighs. 

'Twas  a  Duke's  fair  orphan-girl,  and 
her  uncle's  ward,  the  Earl 

Toll  slowly. 
Who  betrothed  her,  twelve  years  old, 
for  the  sake  of  dowry  gold. 
To  his    son    Lord    Leigh,    the 
churl. 

But  what  time  she  had  made  good 

all  her  years  of  womanhood. 

Toll  slowly. 

Unto  both  those  Lords  of    Leigh, 

spake  she  out  right  sovranly, 

"  My  will  runneth  as  my  blood. 

"  And  while  this  same  blood  makes 
red  this  same  right  hand's 
veins,"  she  said,  — 

Toll  slowly. 
"  'Tis  my  will  as  lady  free,  not  to 
wed  a  Lord  of  Leigh, 
But  Sir  Guy  of  Linteged." 

The  old  Earl  he  smiled  smooth,  then 

he  sighed  for  wilful  youth.  — 

Toll  slowly. 


"  Good  my  niece,  that  hand  withal 
looketh    somewhat    soft    and 
small. 
For  so  large  a  will,  in  sooth." 

She,  too,  smiled  by  that  same  sign, 
—  but  her  smile  was  cold  and 
fine,  —  Toll  slowly. 

*'  Little  hand  clasps  muckle  gold ;  or 
it  were  not  worth  the  hold 
Of  thy  son,  good  uncle  mine!" 

Then  the  young  lord  jerked  his 
breath,  and  sware  thickly  in 
his  teeth.  Toll  slowly. 

"  He  would  wed  his  own  betrothed, 
an  she  loved   him,   and    she 
loathed, 
Let  the  life  come  or  the  death." 

Up  she  rose  with  scornful  eyes,  as 
her  father's  child  might  rise. 
Toll  slowly. 
"  Thy  hound's  blood,  my  Lord  of 
Leigh,    stains     thy    knightly 
heel,"  quoth  she, 
"And  he  moans  not  where  he 
lies, 

'But  a  woman's  will  dies  hard,  in 
the  hall  or  on  the  sward !  — 

Toll  slowly. 
By  that    grave,     my    lords,   which 
made  me  orphaned  girl  and 
dowered  lady, 
I  deny  you  wife  and  ward." 

Unto  each  she  bowed  her  head,  and 
swept  past  with  lofty  tread. 

T'oll  slowly. 
Ere  the  midnight-bell  had  ceased,  in 
the  chapel  had  the  priest 
Blessed  her,  bride  of  Linteged. 

Fast  and  fain  the  bridal  train  along 
the  night-storm  rode  amain : 
Toll  slowly. 
Hard  the  steeds  of  lord  and  serf  struck 
their  hoofs  out  on  the  turf, 
In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 

Fast  and  fain  the  kinsmen's  train 
along  the  storm  pursued 
amain  —  Toll  slowly. 

Steed  on  steed-track,  dashing  off  — 
thickening,  doubling  hoof  on 
hoof. 
In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 


406 


PARNASSUS. 


Aiid  the  bridegroom  led  the  flight 

on  his  red-roan  steed  of  might, 

Toll  slowly. 

And  the  bride  lay  on  his   arm,  still 

as  if  she  feared  no  harm, 

Smiling  out  into  the  night. 

"  Dost  thou  fear  ?  "  he  said  at  last ; — 
"  Nay ! "  she  answered  him  in 
haste,  —  Toll  slowly. 

''Not  such  death  as  we  could  find  — 
only  life  with  one  behind  — 
Ride  on  fast  as  fear  —  ride  fast ! ' ' 

Up  the  mountain  wheeled  the  steed 

—  girth  to  ground,   and  fet- 
locks spread,  —       Toll  slowly. 

Headlong  bounds,  and  rocking  flanks, 

—  down  he  staggered  —  down 
the  banks. 

To  the  towers  of  Linteged. 

High  and  low  the  serfs  looked  out, 
red  the  flambeaus  tossed 
about,  —  Toll  slowly. 

In  the    courtyard    rose    the    cry  — 
"  Live  the  Duchess    and  Sir 
Guy!" 
But  she  never  heard  them  shout. 

On  the  steed  she  dropped  her  cheek, 
kissed  his  mane  and  kissed  his 
neck,  —  Toll  slowly. 

"  I  had  happier  died  by  thee,  than 
lived  on  a  Lady  Leigh," 
Were  the  first  words  she  did  speak. 

But  a  three  months'  joyaunce  lay 
'twixt  that  moment  and  to- 
day. Toll  slowly. 

When  five  hundred  archers  tall  stand 
beside  the  castle  wall 
To  recapture  Duchess  May. 

And  the  castle  standeth  black,  with 
the  red  sun  at  its  back,  — 

Toll  slowly. 

And   a  fortnight's  siege  is  done  — 

and,  except  the  Duchess,  none 

Can  misdoubt  the  coming  wrack. 

Then  the  captain,  young  Lord  Leigh, 
with  his  eyes  so  gray  of  blee. 
Toll  slowly. 
And  thin  lips  that  scarcely  sheath 
the  cold  white  gnashing  of  his 
teeth 
Gnashed  in  smiling,  absently, 


Cried  aloud  —  "So  goes  the  day, 
bridegroom  fair  of  Duchess 
May !  —  Toll  slowly. 

Look  thy  last  upon  that  sun.     If 
thou  seest  to-morrow's  one, 
'Twill  be  through  a  foot  of  clay. 

''Ha,  fair  bride!  Dost  hear  no 
sound,  save  that  moaning  of 
the  hound  ?  —         Toll  slowly. 

Thou  and  I  have  parted  troth,  —  yet 
I  keep  my  vengeance-oath. 
And  the  other  may  come  round. 

"Ha!  thy  will  is  brave  to  dare,  and 

thy  new  love  past  compare,  — 

Toll  slowly. 

Yet  thine  old  love's  falchion  brave 

is  as  strong  a  thing  to  have, 

As  the  will  of  lady  fair. 

"Peck  on  blindly,  netted  dove!  —  if 
a  wife's  name  thee  behove. 

Toll  slowly. 
Thou  shalt  wear  the  same  to-mor- 
row, ere  the  grave  has  hid  the 
sorrow 
Of  thy  last  ill-mated  love. 

"O'er  his  fixed  and  silent  mouth, 

thou  and  I  will  call  back  troth, 

Toll  slowly. 

He  shall  altar  be  and  priest,  —  and 

he  will  not  cry  at  least 

'  I  forbid  you,  —  I  am  loath ! ' 

"I  will  wring  my  fingers  pale  in  the 
gauntlet  of  my  mail, 

Toll  slowly. 
'  Little  hand  and  muckle  gold  '  close 
shall  lie  within  my  hold, 
As  the  sword  did,  to  prevail." 

Oh  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the 
little  birds  sang  west. 

Toll  slowly. 
Oh,  and  laughed  the  Duchess  May, 
and  her  soul  did  put  away 
All  his  boasting,  for  a  jest. 

In  her  chamber  did  she  sit,  laughing 
low  to  think  of  it,  — 

Toll  slowly. 
"Tower  is  strong  and  will  is  free  — 
thou  canst  boast,  my  Lord  of 
Leigh, 
But  thou  boasteth  little  wit." 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


407 


In  her  tire-glass  gazed  she,  and  she 
blushed  right  womanly. 

Toll  slowly. 

She  blushed  half  from  her  disdain  — 

half,  her  beauty  was  so  plain, 

—  "Oath  for  oath,  my  Lord  of 

Leigh ! " 

Straight  she  called  her  maidens  in  — 
"  Since  ye  gave  me  blame  here- 
in, Toll  slowly. 

That  a  bridal  such  as  mine  should 
lack  gauds  to  make  it  fine. 
Come  and  shrive  me  from  that 
sin. 

"  It  is   three    months  gone  to-day, 

since  I  gave  mine  hand  away. 

Toll  slowly. 

Bring  the  gold  and  bring  the  gem,  we 

will  keep  bride-state  in  them. 

While  we  keep  the  foe  at  bay. 

"On  your  arms  I  loose  my  hair;  — 
comb  it  smooth  and  crown  it 
fair.  Toll  slowly. 

I  would  look  in  purple  pall  from  this 
lattice  down  the  wall. 
And  throw  scorn  to  one  that's 
there!" 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the 
little  birds  sang  west, 

Toll  slowly. 
On  the  tower  the  castle's  lord  leant 
in  silence  on  his  sword, 
With  an  anguish  in  his  breast. 

With  a  spirit-laden  weight,  did  he 
lean  down  passionate. 

Toll  slowly. 
They  have  almost  sapped  the  wall, — 
they  will  enter  there  withal, 
With  no  knocking  at  the  gate. 

Then  the  sword  he  leant  upon, 
shivered  —  snapped  upon  the 
stone,  —  Toll  slowly. 

"Sword,"  he  thought,  with  inward 
laugh,  "ill  thou  servest  for  a 
staff 
When  thy  nobler  use  is  done ! 

" Sword,  thy  nobler  use  is  done!  — 
tower  is  lost,  and  shame  be- 
gun ;  Toll  slowly. 

If  we  met  them  in  the  breach,  hilt  to 
hilt,  or  speech  to  speech, 
We  should  die  there,  each  for  one. 


"If  we  met  them  at  the  wall,  we 
should  singly,  vainly  fall,  — 
Toll  slowly. 
But  if  I  die  here  alone,  — then  I  die, 
who  am  but  one, 
And  die  nobly  for  them  all. 

"  Five  true  friends  lie  for  my  sake, 

in  the  moat  and  in  the  brake, — 

Toll  slowly. 

Thirteen  warriors  lie  at  rest,  with  a 

black  wound  in  the  breast, 

And  not  one  of  these  will  wake. 

"So  no  more  of  this  shall  be!  — 
heart-blood  weighs  too  heavi- 
ly— Toll  slowly. 

And  I  could  not  sleep  in  grave,  with 
the  faithful  and  the  brave 
Heaped  around  and  over  me. 

"  Since  young  Clare  a  mother  hath, 
and  young  Kalph  a  plighted 
faith.  Toll  slowly. 

Since  my  pale  young  sister's  cheeks 
blush  like  rose  when  Ronald 
speaks, 
Albeit  never  a  word  she  saith  — 

"These  shall  never  die  forme  —  life- 
blood  falls  too  heavily : 

Toll  slowly. 
And  if  I  die  here  apart,  — o'er  my 
dead  and  silent  heart 
They  shall  pass  out  safe  and  free. 

"  When  the  foe  hath  heard  it  said  — 
'Death  holds  Guy  of  Linte- 
ged,'  —  Toll  slowly. 

That    new  corse   new  peace    shall 
bring;  and  a  blessed,  blessed 
thing. 
Shall  the  stone  be  at  its  head. 

"  Then  my  friends  shall  pass  out  free, 

and  shall  bear  my  memory,  — 

Toll  slowly. 

Then  my  foes  shall  sleek  their  pride, 

soothing    fair     my    widowed 

bride 

Whose  sole  sin  was  love  of  me. 

"  With  their  words  all  smooth  and 
sweet,  they  will  front  her  and 
entreat  Toll  slowly. 

And  their  purple  pall  will  spread 
underneath  her  fainting  head 
While  her  tears  drop  over  it. 


408 


PARNASSUS. 


"She  will  weep  her  woman's  tears, 
she  will  pray  her  woman's 
prayers,  —  Toll  sloivly. 

But  her  heart  is  young  in  pain,  and 
her  hopes  will  spring  again 
By  the  suntime  of  her  years. 

"  Ah,  sweet  May !  —  ah,  sweetest 
grief !  —  once  I  vowed  thee  my 
belief,  Toll  slowly. 

That  thy  name  expressed  thy  sweet- 
ness, —  May  of  poets,  in  com- 
pleteness ! 
Now  my  May-day  seemeth  brief." 

All  these  silent  thoughts  did  swim 
o'er  his  eyes  grown  strange 
and  dim,  —  Toll  slowly. 

Till  his  true  men  in  the  place,  wished 
they  stood  there  face  to  face 
With  the  foe  instead  of  him. 

"  One  last  oath,  my  friends  that  wear 
faithful  hearts  to  do  and 
dare !  —  Toll  sloivly. 

Tower  must  fall,  and  bride  be  lost ! 
—  swear  me  service  worth  the 
cost," 

—  Bold  they  stood    around  to 
swear. 

"Each  man  clasp  my  hand  and  swear, 

by  the  deed  we  failed  in  there. 

Toll  slowly. 

Not  for  vengeance,  not  for  right,  will 
ye  strike  one  blow  to-night ! " 

—  Pale  they  stood  around  —  to 
swear. 

"  One  last  boon,  young  Ralph  and 
Clare!  faithful  hearts  to  do 
and  dare  I  Toll  slowly. 

Bring  that  steed  up  from  his  stall, 
which  she  kissed  before  you 
all, 
Guide  him  up  the  turret-stair. 

"  Ye  shall  harness  him  aright,  and 
lead  upward  to  this  height ! 

Toll  slowly. 
Once  in  love  and  twice  in  war,  hath 
he  borne  me  strong  and  far. 
He  shall  bear  me  far  to-night." 

Then  his  men  looked  to  and  fro, 
when  they  heard  him  speaking 
so.  Toll  slowly. 


—  '"Las!    the    noble    heart,"  they 
thought,  —  "  he    in    sooth  is 
grief-distraught. 
Would  we  stood  here  with  the 
foe!" 

But  a  fire  flashed  from  his  eye,  'twixt 
their  thought  and  their  re- 
ply, —  Toll  slowly. 

"Have  ye   so  much  time  to  waste! 
We  who  ride  here,  must  ride 
fast. 
As  we  wish  our  foes  to  fly." 

They  have  fetched  the  steed  with 
care,  in  the  harness  he  did 
wear.  Toll  slowly. 

Past    the    court    and    through    the 
doors,  across  the  rushes  of  the 
floors ; 
But  they  goad  him  up  the  stair. 

Then  from  out  her  bower  chambere, 

did  the  Duchess  May  repair. 

Toll  slowly. 

"Tell  me  now  what  is  your  need," 

said  the  lady,  "  of  this  steed. 

That  ye  goad  him  up  the  stair  ?  " 

Calm  she  stood ;  unbodkined  through, 
fell  her  dark  hair  to  her 
shoe,  —  Toll  slovjly. 

And  the  smile  upon  her  face,  ere  she 
left  the  tiring-glass. 
Had  not  time  enough  to  go. 

"  Get  thee  back,  sweet  Duchess  May ! 

hope  is  gone  like  yesterday,  — 

Toll  sloivly. 

One  half-hour  completes  the  breach ; 

and  thy  lord    grows  wild    of 

speech. 

Get  thee  in,  sweet  lady,  and  pray. 

"  In  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all,  — 
loud  he  cries  for  steed  from 
stall.  Toll  slowly. 

He  would  ride  as  far,"  quoth  he,  "  as 
for  love  and  victory. 
Though  he  rides  the  castle  wall. 

"And  we  fetch  the  steed  from  stall, 
up  where  never  a  hoof  did 
fall.  —  Toll  slowly. 

Wifely  prayer  meets  deathly  need ! 
may  the  sweet  Heavens  hear 
thee  plead. 
If  he  rides  the  castle-wall." 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


409 


Low  she  dropped  her  head,  and  lower, 
till  her  hair  coiled  on  the 
floor,  —  Toll  dowly. 

And  tear  after  tear  you  heard  fall 
distinct  as  any  word 
Which  you  might  be  listening  for. 

"  Get  thee  in,  thou  soft  ladie !  —  here 
is  never  a  place  for  tliee !  — 

Toll  slowly. 
Braid  thy  hair  and  clasp  thy  gown, 
that  thy  beauty  in  its  moan 
May  find  grace  with  Leigh  of 
Leigh." 

She  stood  up  in  bitter  case,  with  a 
pale  yet  stately  face, 

Toll  slowly. 

Like  a  statue  thunderstruck,  which, 

though    quivering,  seems    to 

look 

Right  against  the  thunder-place. 

And  her  foot  trod  in,  with  pride, 
her  oAvn  tears  i'  the  stone  be- 
side, —  Toll  slowly. 

"  Go  to,  faitliful  friends,  go  to!  — 
Judge  no   more  what   ladies 
do,— 
No,  nor  how  their    lords    may 
ride!" 

Then  the  good  steed's  rein  she  took, 
and  his  neck  did  kiss  and 
stroke :  Toll  slowly. 

Soft  he  neighed  to  answer  her ;  and 
then  followed  up  the  stair. 
For  the  love  of  her  sweet  look. 

Oh,  and  steeply,  steeply  wound  up 
the  narrow  stair  around,  — 

Toll  slowly. 
Oh,   and  closely  speeding,   step  by 
step  beside  her  treading, 
Did  he  follow,  meek  as  hound. 

On  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all,  — 
there,  where  never  a  hoof  did 
fall,  —  Toll  slowly. 

Out  they  swept,  a  vision  steady,  — 
noble  steed  and  lovely  lady, 
Calm  as  if  in  bower  or  stall ! 

Down  she  knelt  at  her  lord's  knee, 

and  she  looked  up  silently,  — 

Toll  slowly. 

And  he  kissed  her  twice  and  thrice, 

for  that  look  within  her  eyes 

Which  he  could  not  bear  to  see. 


Quoth  he,  "  Get  thee  from  this  strife, 
—  and  the  sweet  saints  bless 
thy  life !  —  "Toll  slowly. 

In  this  hour,  I  stand  in  need  of  my 
noble  red-roan  steed  — 
But  no  more  of  my  noble  wife.'* 

Quoth  she,  "Meekly  have  I  done  all 
thy  biddings  under  sun : 

Toll  slowly. 
But  by  all  my  womanhood, — which 
is  proved  so  true  and  good, 
I  will  never  do  this  one. 

"Now  by  womanhood's  degree,  and 
by  wifehood's  verity. 

Toll  slowly. 
In  this  hour  if  thou  hast  need  of  thy 
noble  red-roan  steed. 
Thou  hast  also  need  of  me. 

"By  this  golden  ring  ye  see  on  this 
lifted  hand  pardie, 

Toll  slowly. 
If  this  hour,  on  castle-wall,  can  be 
room  for  steed  from  stall, 
Shall  be  also  room  for  me. 

"  So  the  sweet  saints  with  me  be  '* 
(did  she  utter  solemnly,) 

Ihll  slowly. 
"If  a  man,  this   eventide,  on  this 
castle-wall  will  ride, 
He  shall  ride  the  same  with  me." 

Oh,  he  sprang  up  in  the  selle,  and  he 
laughed  out  bitter  well,  — 

Toll  slowly. 
"Wouldst    thou    ride    among    the 
leaves,  as  we  used  on   other 
eves. 
To  hear  chime  a  vesper-bell  ?  " 

She  clang  closer  to  his  knee  —  "  Ay, 
beneath  the  cypress-tree !  — 

Toll  sloioly. 
Mock  me  not;  for  otherwhere  than 
along  the  greenwood  fair. 
Have  I  ridden  fast  with  thee ! 

"Fast  I  rode  with  new-made  vows, 
from  my  angry  kinsman's 
house !    *  Toll  slowly. 

What!  and  would  you  men  should 
reck    that  I  dared  more  for 
love's  sake 
As  a  bride  than  as  a  spouse  ? 


410 


PABNASSUS. 


"  What,  and  would  you  it  should  fall, 
as  a  proverb,  before  all, 

Toll  sloivly. 
That  a  bride  may  keep    your  side 
while  through  castlegate  you 
ride. 
Yet  eschew  the  castle-wall?  " 

Ho !  the  breach  yawns  into  ruin,  and 

roars  up  against  her  suing,  — 

Toll  slowly. 

With  the  inarticulate  din,  and  the 

dreadful  falling  in  — 

Shrieks  of  doing  and  undoing ! 

Twice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain ; 

but  the   small    hands   closed 

again.  Toll  slowly. 

Back  he    reined    the  steed  —  back, 

back !  but  she  trailed  along  his 

track 
With  a  frantic  clasp  and  strain ! 

JEvermore  the  foemen  pour  through 
the  crash  of  window  and 
door,  —  Toll  slowly. 

And  the  shouts  of  Leigh  and  Leigh, 
and  the  shrieks  of  ''  kill ! "  and 
"flee!" 
Strike  up  clear  amid  the  roar. 

Thrice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain, 

—  but  they  closed  and  clung 
again,  —  Toll  slowly. 

Wild  she  clung,  as  one,  withstood, 
clasps  a  Clirist  upon  the  rood, 
In  a  spasm  of  deathly  pain. 

She  clung  wild  and  she  clung  mute, 

—  with    her  shuddering    lips 
half-shut.  Toll  slowly. 

Her  head  fallen  as  half  in  swound, 

—  hair  and  knee  swept  on  the 
ground. 

She  clung  wild  to  stirrup    and 
foot. 

Back  he  reined  his  steed  back-thrown 
on  the  slippery  coping-stone. 
Toll  slowly. 
Back  the  iron  hoofs  did  grind  on  the 
battlement  behind, 
Whence  a  hundred   feet  went 
down. 

And  his  heel  did  press  and  goad  on 
the  quivering  flank  bestrode. 
Toll  slowly. 


"Friends    and    brothers,    save    my 
wife !  —  Pardon,     sweet,      in 
change  for  life,  — 
But  I  ride  alone  to  God." 

Straight  as  if  the  Holy  name  had  up- 
breathed  her  like  a  flame, 

Toll  slowly. 
She  upsprang,  she  rose  upright,  —  in 
his  selle  she  sat  in  sight ; 
By  her  love  she  overcame. 

And  her  head  was  on  his  breast, 
where  she  smiled  as  one  at 
rest,  —  Toll  slowly. 

"King,"  she  cried,  "O  vesper-bell, 
in  the  beech-wood's  old  cha- 
pelle ! 
But  the  passing-bell  rings  best." 

They  have  caught  out  at  the  rein, 
which  Sir  Guy  threw  loose  — 
in  vain.  Toll  slowly. 

For  the  horse  in  stark  despair,  with 
his  front  hoofs  poised  in  air, 
On  the  last  verge  rears  amain. 

Now  he  hangs,  he  rocks  between  — 
and  his  nostrils  curdle  in,  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  he  shivers  head  and  hoof  —  and 
the  flakes  of  foam  fall  off ; 
And  his  face  grows  fierce  and 
thin! 

And  a  look  of  human  woe  from  his 
staring  eyes  did  go, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  a  sharp  cry  uttered  he,  in    a 
foretold  agony 
Of  the  headlong  death  below,  — 

And  "Ring,  ring, — thou  passing- 
bell,"  still  she  cried,  i'  the 
old  chapelle !  — 

Toll  slowly. 
Then  back-toppling,  crushing  back, 
a  dead  weight  flung  out    to 
wrack. 
Horse  and  riders  overfell ! 


Oh,  the  little  birds   sang  east,  and 
the  little  birds  sang  west, — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  I  read  this  ancient  Rhyme  in 
the     churchyard,     while    the 
chime. 
Slowly  tolled  for  one  at  rest. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


411 


Tlie  abeles  moved  in  the  sun,  and 
the  river  smooth  did  run, 

Toll  slowly. 

And  the  ancient  Rhyme  rang  strange, 

witliits  passion  and  its  change, 

Here,  where  all  done  lay  undone. 

And  beneath  a  willow  tree,  I  a  little 
grave  did  see, 

Toll  slowly. 
Where  was  graved,  —  Here  unde- 

FILED,        LIETH       MAUD,        A 

three-year  child, 
Eighteen    hundred    forty- 
three. 

Then,   O  Spirits  —  did    I    say  —  ye 
who  rode  so  fast  that  day,  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Did    star- wheels    and    angel-wings, 
with  their  holy  winnowings, 
Keep  beside  you  all  the  way  ? 

Though  in  passion  ye  would  dash, 

with  a  blind  and  heavy  crash. 

Toll  slowly. 

Up  against  the  thick-bossed  shield 

of    God's    judgment    in     the 

field, — 

Though  your  heart  and  brain 

were  rash,  — 

Now,  your  will  is  all  unwilled  —  now 
your  pulses  are  all  stilled,  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Now,  ye  lie  as  meek  and  mild  ( where- 
so  laid)  as  Maud  the  child. 
Whose  small  grave  was  lately 
filled. 

Beating  heart  and  burning  brow,  ye 
are  very  patient  now, 

Toll  slowly. 

And  the  children  might  be  bold  to 

pluck  the  kingcups  from  your 

mould 

Ere  a  month  had  let  them  grow. 

And  you  let  the  goldfinch  sing  in  the 
alder  near  in  spring, 

Toll  slowly 
Let  her  build  her  nest  and  sit  all  the 
three  weeks  out  on  it. 
Murmuring  not  at  any  thing. 

In  your  patience  ye  are  strong ;  cold 
and  heat  ye  take  not  wrong : 
Toll  slowly. 


When  the  trumpet  of  the  angel  blows 
eternity's  evangel. 
Time  will  seem  to  you  not  long. 

Oh,  the  little   birds   sang  east,  and 
the  little  birds  sang  west, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  I  said  in  underbreath,  —  all  our 
life  is  mixed  with  death, 
And    who    knoweth    which    is 
best? 

Oh,  the  little  birds   sang  east,  and 
the  little  birds  sang  west, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  I  smiled  to  think  God's  great- 
ness flowed  around  our  incom- 
pleteness, — 
Round  our  restlessness,  his  rest. 
E.  B.  Browning. 


FAIR  HELEN. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies : 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ! 

Curst  be  the  heert  that  thought  the 

thought. 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the 

shot. 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succor  me ! 

0  think  na  but  my  heart  was  sair 
When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spake 

nae  mair ! 

1  laid  her  down  wi'  meikle  care 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ; 

As  I  went  down  to  the  water-side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ; 

I  lighted  doun  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sina', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma'. 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare ! 
I'll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
Shall  bind  my  heart  forevermair 
Until  the  day  I  die. 


412 


PAENASSUS. 


O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,  '  Haste  and  come  to  me ! ' 

O  Helen  fair !  O  Helen  chaste ! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest. 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy 
rest 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

Scott. 


THE   BRAES  OF    YARROW. 

"  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonnie,  bon- 
nie  bride ! 
Busk   ye,  busk   ye,  my   winsome 
marrow ! 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonnie,  bonnie 
bride, 
And  tliink  nae  mair  of  tlie  Braes 
of  Yarrow." 

"  Where  gat  ye  that  bonnie,  bonnie 
bride. 
Where  gat  ye  that  winsome  mar- 
row?" 
"  I  gat  her  where  I  daurna  weel  be 
seen, 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow. 

"Weep   not,  weep  not,  my  bonnie, 
bonnie  bride. 
Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  winsome 
marrow ! 
Nor  let  thy  heart  lament  to  leave 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow." 

"Why  does   she  weep,  thy  bonnie, 
bonnie  bride? 
Why  does  she  weep,  thy  winsome 
marrow  ? 
And  why  daur  ye  nae  mair  weel  be 
seen 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow?" 

*'  Lang  maun  she  weep,  lang  maun 
she,  maun  she  weep  — 
Lang  maun  she  weep  wi'  dule  and 
sorrow ; 
A-nd  lang  maun  I  nae  mair  weel  be 
seen 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow. 


"For  she  has  tint  her  lover,  lover 
dear, 
Her  lover  dear,  the  cause  of  sor- 
row; 
And  I  hae  slain  the  comeliest  swain 
That  e'er  pu'd  birks  on  the  Braes 
of  Yarrow. 

"Why  runs  thy  stream,  O  Yarrow, 
Yarrow,  red? 
Why  on  thy  braes  heard  the  voice 
of  sorrow? 
And  why  yon  melancholious  weeds 
Hung  on  the  bonnie  birks  of  Yar- 
row? 

"  What's  yonder  floats  on  the  rueful, 
rueful  flood  ? 
What's  yonder  floats?  O,  dule  and 
sorrow ! 
'Tis  he,  the  comely  swain  I  slew 
Upon  the  dulefu'  Braes   of  Yar- 
row. 

"Wash,    O   wash  his    wounds,  his 
wounds  in  tears. 
His  wounds  in  tears  o'  dule  and 
sorrow ; 
And  wrap  his   limbs   in   mourning 
weeds. 
And  lay  him  on  the  banks  of  Yar- 
row. 

"  Then  build,  then  build,  ye  sisters, 
sisters  sad. 
Ye  sisters  sad,  his  tomb  wi'  sor- 
row; 
And  weep  around,  in  waeful  wise. 
His  hapless  fate  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow ! 

"  Curse  ye,  curse  ye,  his  useless,  use- 
less shield. 
The  arm  that  wrought  the  deed  of 
sorrow. 
The  fatal    spear    that   pierced    his 
breast, 
His  comely  breast,  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow ! 

"  Did  I  not  warn  thee  not  to,  not  to 
love. 
And  warn  from  fight  ?    But,  to  my 
sorrow. 
Too  rashly  bold,  a  stronger  arm  thou 
met'st, 
Thou    met'st,   and    fell    on    the 
Braes  of  Yarrow. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


413 


"  Sweet  smell  the  birk ;  green  grows, 
green  grows  the  grass ; 
Yellow    on    Yarrow's    braes    the 
gowan ; 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock ; 
Sweet  the  wave  of  Yarrow  flowan ! 

"Flows  Yarrow  sweet?    As  sweet, 
as  sweet  flows  Tweed ; 
As  green  its  grass;  its  gowan  as 
yellow; 
As  sweet  smells  on  its    braes   the 
birk ; 
The  apple  frae  its  rock  as  mellow ! 

"  Fair  was  thy  love !  fair,  fair  indeed 
thy  love! 
In  flowery  bands  thou  didst  him 
fetter ; 
Though  he  was  fair,  and  well-beloved 
again. 
Than  I  he  never  loved  thee  better. 


"Busk  ye,  then,  busk,  my  bonnie, 
bonnie  bride ! 
Busk  ye,   busk  ye,   my  winsome 
marrow ! 
Busk  ye,  and  lo'e  me  on  the  banks 
of  Tweed 
And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes 
of  Yarrow." 

"  How  can  I  busk  a  bonnie,  bonnie 
bride  ? 
How  can  I  busk  a  winsome  mar- 
row? 
How    love   him    on   the    banks    of 
Tweed, 
That  slew  my  love  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow  ? 

"  O  Yarrow  fields,  may  never,  never 
rain. 
Nor    dew,    thy   tender    blossoms 
cover ! 
For  there  was  basely  slain  my  love, 
My  love,  as  he  had  not  been  a 
lover ! 

'*  The  boy  put  on  his  robes,  his  robes 
of  green, 
His  purple  vest,  —  'twas   my  ain 
sewing ; 
Ah,    wretched    me!    I    little,    little 
kenned 
He  was,  in  these,  to  meet  his  ruin. 


"  The  boy  took  out  his  milk-white, 
milk-white  steed. 
Unmindful  of  my  dule  and  sorrow ; 
But  ere  the  too  fa'  of  the  night. 
He  lay  a  corpse  on  the  banks  of 
Yarrow ! 

"Much  I  rejoiced  that  waefu',  wae- 
fu'  day; 
I  sang,  my  voice  the  woods  return- 
ing; 
But  lang  ere  night  the  spear  was 
flown. 
That  slew  my  love,  and   left  me 
mourning. 

"  What  can  my  barbarous,  barbarous 
father  do. 
But  with  his  cruel  rage  pursue  me  ? 
My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear, — 
How  canst  thou,  barbarous  man, 
then  woo  me  ? 

"  My  happy  sisters  may  be,  may  be 
proud ; 

With  cruel  and  ungentle  scoffin, 
May  bid  me  seek,  on  Yarrow  Braes, 

My  lover  nailed  in  his  coflSn. 

"  My  brother  Douglas  may  upbraid. 
And     strive,     with     threatening 
words,  to  move  me ; 
My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear, — 
How  can   thou   ever  bid  me  love 
thee? 

"  Yes,  yes,  prepare  the  bed,  the  bed 
of  love! 

With  bridal-sheets  my  body  cover ! 
Unbar,  ye  bridal-maids,  the  door! 

Let  in  the  expected  husband-lover ! 

"  But  who  the  expected  husband, 
husband  is  ? 
His  hands,  methinks,  are  bathed 
in  slaughter ! 
Ah  me!  what  ghastly  spectre's  yon 
Comes  in  his  pale  shroud,  bleeding 
after  ? 

"  Pale  as  he  is,  here  lay  him,  lay  him 

down; 

Oh  lay  his  cold  head  on  my  pillow! 

Take  off,  take  off  these  bridal  weeds, 

And  crown  my  careful  head  with 

willow. 


414 


PARNASSUS. 


"  Pale  though  thou  art,  yet  best,  yet 
best  beloved, 
Oh  could  my  warmth  to  life  restore 
thee ! 
Yet  lie  all  night  within  my  arms  — 
No  youth  lay  ever  there  before 
thee! 

"Pale,  pale  indeed,  O  lovely,  lovely 
youth ! 
Forgive,  forgive  so  foul  a  slaughter, 
And  lie  all  night  within  my  arms, 
No  youth    shall    ever  lie    there 
after!" 

"Return,     return,     O      mournful, 

mournful  bride ! 

Return,  and  dry  thy  useless  sorrow ! 

Thy  lover  heeds  nought  of  thy  sighs ; 

He  lies  a  corpse  on  the  Braes  of 

Yarrow." 

William  Hamilton. 


ROSABELLE. 

Oh  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay ! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay. 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

"Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant 
crew, 

And,  gentle  lady,  deign  to  stay ! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

"  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with 
white ; 
To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly : 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water- 
Sprite, 
Wlios(i    screams     forebode     that 
wreck  is  nigh. 

"  Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  lady 
gay; 
Then    stay  thee,   Fair,  in  Ravens- 
heuch ; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to- 
day?" 

"'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's 

heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 
But  that  my  lady-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 


"  'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides 
well. 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide 
If  'tis  not  filled  by  Rosabelle." 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 
A  wondrous  blaze  was    seen    to 
gleam ; 
'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's 
light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moon- 
beam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin' s  castled  rock. 

It  ruddied  all  the  copse- wood  glen ; 
'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of 
oak. 
And  seen  from    caverned    Haw- 
thornden. 

Seemed  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 
Where  Roslin' s  chiefs  uncofl&ned 
lie. 

Each  baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high. 
Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress 
fair,  — 

So  still  they  blaze  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin' s  barons 
bold 
Lie    buried    within    that    proud 
chapelle ; 
Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold. 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle  I 

And  each  Saint  Clair  was    buried 
there 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with 
knell ; 
But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild 
winds  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

Scott. 


TELLING  THE  BEES. 

Here  is  the  place ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall 
still, 
And   the  stepping-stones  in   the 
shallow  brook. 


NAERATIVE  POEMS  AKD  BALLADS. 


415 


There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate 
red-barred, 
And  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and 
the  cattle-yard. 
And  the  white  horns  tossing  above 
the  wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in 
the  sun ; 
And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers, 
weed-o'errun. 
Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes. 

Heavy  and  slow ; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the 
same  sun  glows, 
And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a 
year  ago. 

There's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell 
in  the  breeze ; 
And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees. 
Setting,    as    then,   over  Fernside 
farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed 
my  hair. 
And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my 
brow  and  throat. 

Since    we     parted,    a    month    had 
passed, — 
To  love,  a  year ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked 
at  last 
On  the  little    red  gate    and  the 
well-sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now,  —  the  slantwise 
rain 
Of  light  through  the  leaves. 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window- 
pane. 
The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the 
eves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by 
the  door,  — 
Nothing  changed  but  the  hive  of 
bees. 


Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl 
small. 
Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred 
of  black. 

Trembling,  I  listened:  the  summer 
sun 
Had  the  chill  of  snow ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees 
of  one 
Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must 
go! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,   "My  Mary 
weeps 
For  the  dead  to-day : 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 
The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age 
away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low;  on  the 
doorway  sill. 
With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl 
still 
Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and 
in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever 
since 
In  my  ear  sounds  on :  —  ^ 
"Stay  at  home,  pretty  bee's,  fly  not 
hence ! 
Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone ! " 
Whittieb. 


BRUCE  AKD   THE  ABBOT. 

The  Abbot  on  the  threshold  stood, 
And  in  his  hand  the  holy  rood : 
Then,  cloaking  hate  with  fiery  zeal, 
Proud  Lorn  first  answered  the  ap- 
peal ;  — 
"Thou  comest,  O  holy  man, 
Ti-ue  sons  of  blessed  church  to  greet, 
But  little  deeming  here  to  meet 
A  wretch,  beneath  the  ban 
Of  Pope  and  Church,  for  murder 

done 
Even  on  the  sacred  altar-stone !  — 
Well  mayst  thou  wonder  we  should 

know 
Such  miscreant  here,  nor  lay  him 
low. 


416 


PARNASSUS. 


Or  dream  of  greeting,  peace,  or  truce, 
With  excominunicated  Bruce ! 
Yet  will  I  grant  to  end  debate, 
Thy  sainted  voice  decide  his  fate." 

The  Abbot  seemed  with  eye  severe 
The  hardy  chieftain's  speech  to  hear ; 
Then  on   King  Robert  turned  the 

Monk,  — 
But  twice    his    courage    came  and 

sunk. 
Confronted  with  the  hero's  look; 
Twice  fell  his  eye,  his  accents  shook; 
Like  man  by  prodigy  amazed, 
Upon  the  King  the  Abbot  gazed  ; 
Then  o'er  his  pallid  features  glance 
Convulsions  of  ecstatic  trance ; 
His  breathing  came  more  thick  and 

fast, 
And  from  his  pale  blue  eyes  were 

cast 
Strange  rays  of  wild  and  wandering 

light; 
Uprise  his  locks  of  silver  white. 
Flushed  is  his  brow ;  through  every 

vein 
In  azure  tide  the  currents  strain. 
And  undistinguished  accents  broke 
The  awful  silence  ere  he  spoke. 

"  De  Bruce !  I    rose  with    purpose 

dread 
To  speak  my  curse  upon  thy  head, 
And  give' thee  as  an  outcast  o'er 
To    him  who    burns    to    shed    thy 

gore;  — 
But,  like  the  Midianite  of  old, 
Who  stood  on  Zophim,  heaven-con- 
trolled, 
I  feel  within  mine  aged  breast 
A  power  that  will  not  be  repressed. 
It  prompts  my  voice,  it  swells  my 

veins, 
It  burns,  it  maddens,  it  constrains !  — 
De  Bruce,  thy  sacrilegious  blow 
Hath  at  God's  altar  slain  thy  foe: 
O'ermastered  yet  by  liigh  behest, 
I    bless    thee,   and    thou    shalt   be 

blessed ! " 
He  spoke,  and  o'er  the  astonished 

throng 
Was  silence,  awful,  deep,  and  long. 

Again  that  light  has  fired  his  eye. 
Again  his  form  swells  bold  and  high, 
The  broken  voice  of  age  is  gone, 
'Tis      vigorous      manhood's     lofty 
tone : — 


"Thrice  vanquished   on  the  battle 

plain,  — 
Thy  followers  slaughtered,  fled,  or 

ta'en,  — 
A  hunted  wanderer  on  the  wild, 
On  foreign  shores  a  man  exiled. 
Disowned,  deserted,  and  distressed,  — 
I    bless    thee,   and    thou    shalt    be 

blessed ! 
Blessed  in  the  hall  and  in  the  field, 
Under  the  mantle  as  the  shield. 
Avenger  of  thy  country's  shame, 
Restorer  of  her  injured  fame. 
Blessed    in    thy  sceptre    and    thy 

sword,  — 
De  Bruce,  fair  Scotland's  rightful 

Lord, 
Blessed  in  thy  deeds  and  in  thy  fame, 
What  lengthened  honors  wait    thy 

name ! 
In  distant  ages,  sire  to  son 
Shall  tell  thy  tale  of  freedom  won, 
And  teach  his  infants,  in  the  use 
Of  earliest  speech,  to  falter  Bruce. 
Go,  then,  triumphant!  sweep  along 
Thy  course,   the  theme  of  many  a 

song! 
The  Power,  whose  dictates  swell  my 

breast, 
Hath  blessed  thee,  and  thou  shalt 

be  blessed!" 

Scott. 


VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 

The  king  was  on  his  throne. 

The  satraps  thronged  the  hall ; 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold. 

In  Judah  deemed  divine,  — 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  heathen's  wine  I 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall, 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand: 
The  fingers  of  a  man ;  — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran. 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 
And  bade  no  more  rejoice : 

All  bloodless  waxed  his  look, 
And  tremulous  his  voice. 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


417 


"Let  the  men  of  lore  appear, 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear. 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 

Chaldsea's  seers  are  good. 

But  here  they  have  no  skill ; 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood, 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore ; 
But  now  they  were  not  sage. 

They  saw,  —  but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth,  — 
He  heard  the  king's  command, 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view: 
He  read  it  on  that  night,  — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

"Belshazzar's  grave  is  made, 

His  kingdom  passed  away, 
He  in  the  balance  weighed, 

Is  light  and  vrorthless  clay. 
The  shroud,  his  robe  of  state ; 

His  canopy,  the  stone; 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate ! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne !  " 

Bykon. 


SIR  PA  YON  AND  ST.  PAVON. 


St.  Maek's  hushed  abbey  heard. 
Through  prayers,  a  roar  and  din ; 

A  brawling  voice  did  shout, 
*'  Knave  shaveling,  let  me  in ! " 

The  cag^d  porter  peeped. 

All  fluttering,  through  the  grate, 
Like  birds  that  hear  a  mew. 

A  knight  was  at  the  gate. 

His  left  haiid  reined  his  steed. 
Still  smoking  from  the  ford ; 

His    crimson    right,    that    dangled, 
clutched 
Half  of  his  broken  sword. 

His  broken  plume  flapped  low ; 

His  charger's  mane  with  mud 
Was  clogged ;  he  wavered  in  his  seat ; 

His  mail  dropped  drops  of  blood. 
27 


"  Who  Cometh  in  such  haste  ?  " 
'•  Sir  Pavon,  late,  I  hight, 

Of  all  the  land  around 
The  stanchest,  mightiest  knight, 

"  My  foes  —  they  dared  not  face  — 

Beset  me  at  my  back 
In  ambush.     Fast  and  hard 

They  follow  on  my  track. 

"  Now  wilt  thou  let  me  in, 
Or  shall  I  burst  the  door?" 

The  grating  bolts  ground  back ;  the 
knight 
Lay  swooning  in  his  gore. 

As  children,  half  afraid. 
Draw  near  a  crushed  wasp. 

Look,  touch,  and  twitch  away 

Their  hands,  then  lightly  grasp,  — 

Him  to  their  spital  soon 
The  summoned  brethren  bore. 

And  searched  his  wounds.    He  woke. 
And  roundly  cursed  and  swore. 

The  younger  friar  stopped  his  ears ; 

The  elder  chid.     He  flung 
His  gummy  plasters  at  his  mouth, 

And  bade  him  hold  his  tongue. 

But,  faint  and  weak,  when,  left 

Upon  his  couch  alone. 
He  viewed  the  valley,  framed  with- 
in 

His  window's  carven  stone. 

He  learned  anew  to  weep. 

All  as  he  lay  along. 
To  see  the  smoke-wreaths  from  his 
towers 

Climb  up  the  clouds  among. 

The  abbot  came  to  bring 

A  balsam  to  his  guest. 
On  soft  feet  tutored  long 

To  break  no  sufferer's  rest, 

And  heard  his  sobbing  heart 
Drink  deep  in  draughts  of  woe ; 

Then  "  Benedicite,  my  son," 
He  breathed,  in  murmurs  low. 

Right  sharply  turned  the  knight 
Upon  the  unwelcome  spy ; 

But   changed   his    shaggy  face,  as 
when, 
Down  through  a  stormy  sky. 


418 


PARNASSUS. 


The  quiet  autumn  sun 
Looks  on  a  landscape  grim. 

He  crossed  himself  before  the  priest, 
And  speechless  gazed  on  him. 

His  brow  was  large  and  grand, 

And  meet  for  governing ; 
The  beauty  of  his  holiness 

Did  crown  him  like  a  king. 

His  mien  was  high,  yet  mild ; 

His  deep  and  reverent  eye 
Seemed    o'er    a    peaceful    past    to 
gaze,  — 

A  blest  futurity. 

His  stainless  earthy  shell 
Was  worn  so  pure  and  thin, 

That    through    the     callow    angel 
showed, 
Half-hatched  that  stirred  within. 

The  cloisters  wh6n  he  paced 

At  eve,  the  brethren  said. 
E'en  then  a  shimmering  halo  dawned 

Around  his  saintly  head. 

If  forth  he  went,  the  street 

Became  a  hallowed  aisle. 
Men  knelt ;  and  children  ran  to  seek 

The  blessing  of  his  smile ; 

And  mothers  on  each  side  came  out. 

And  stood  at  every  door. 
And  held  their  babies  up,  and  put 


As  pure  white  lambs  unto 
Men  sickening  unto  death 

Their  sweet  infectious  health  give 
out, 
And  heal  them  with  their  breath, 

His  white  and  thriving  soul. 

In  heavenly  pastures  fed. 
Still  somewhat  of  its  innocence 

On  all  around  him  shed. 

Sir  Pavon's  scarce-stanched  wounds 
He  bound  with  fearless  skill. 

Who  lay  and   watched  him,  meek 
and  mute, 
And  let  him  work  his  will. 

While  in  his  fevered  brain 
Thus  mused  his  fancy  quaint: 

"  My  grandam  told  me  once  of  saints, 
And  this  is,  sure,  a  saint  I 


"  (I  was  a  new-breeched  boy, 

And  sat  upon  her  knee, 
Less  mindful  of  the  story  than 

Of  cates  she  gave  to  me. ) 

"  But  then  I  thought  a  flood 
Came  down  to  drown  them  all, 

And  that  they  only  now  in  stone 
Stood  on  the  minster  wall, 

"  Or  painted  in  the  glass 

Upon  the  window  high. 
Where,  swelled  with  spring-tides, 
breaks  the  sea 

Beneath,  and  leaves  them  dry, 

"  Quite  out  of  danger's  way. 
And  breathed  and  walked  no  more 

Upon  the  muddy  earth,  to  do 
The  deeds  they  did  of  yore, 

"  Wlien  still  the  sick  were  healed 
Where  e'en  their  shadows  fell; 

But  here  is  one  that's  living  yet. 
And  he  shall  make  me  well." 

The  patient  priest  benign 
His  watch  beside  him  kept. 

Until  he  dropped  his  burning  lids, 
And  like  an  infant  slept. 

•     PAKT  II. 

Some  weary  weeks  were  spent 

In  tossing  and  in  pain, 
Before  the  knight's  huge  frame  was 
braced 

With  strength  and  steel  again. 

(He  had  his  armor  brought 

The  day  he  left  his  bed, 
And  fitted  on  by  novice  hands, 

"  To  prop  him  up,"  he  said.) 

Soon  jangling  then  he  stamped. 

Amazed  with  all  he  saw, 
Through  cell  and  through  refectory, 

With  little  grace  or  awe. 

Unbidden  at  the  board 

He  sat,  a  mouthful  tooR, 
And  shot  it  spattering  through  his 
beard. 

Sprang  up,  and  cursed  the  cook. 

If  some  bowed  friar  passed  by. 
He  chucked  him  'neath  the  chin^ 

And    cried,    "What    cheer?"     or, 
*'  Dost  thou  find 
That  hair-cloth  pricks  the  skinf  *" 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


419 


Or  if  he  came  on  one 

In  meditation  meet, 
Or  penance,  mnte,  he  kindly  vowed 

To  cheer  his  lone  retreat. 

"  Poor  palsied  sire,"  he  cried, 

"  How  fares  thy  stiffened  tongue? 

Let  mine  suffice  for  bothj"  —  and 
trolled 
A  lusty  drinking-song. 

One  softly  in  his  cell 

Did  scourge  his  meagre  hide, 
When  Pavon  on  his  rounds  came  in, 

And  stood,  well  pleased,  beside : 

"  Wliat,  man !    Lay  on !  lay  on ! 

Nay,  hast  thou  tired  thine  arm? 
Give    me    thy    hempen    bunch    of 
cords. 

And  I  will  make  thee  warm." 

With  doubtful  thanks  agreed 

The  monk.     Him  Pavon  whipped 

Right  deftly,  through  the  cloister, 
till 
For  aid  he  cried  and  skipped. 

In  brief,  within  the  house 

Of  holy  Quiet,  all 
Where'er  Sir  Pavon  went  or  came 

Was  outcry,  noise,  and  brawl ; 

Until  the  abbot  said, 

*' Anon  this  coil  must  cease. 
To-morrow  is  the  Truce  of  God ; 

Then  let  him  go  in  peace. 

"  But  call  him  hither  first, 
To  render  thanks  to-night 

For  life  restored ;  for  now  we  go 
To  do  our  vesper  rite." 

With  tamed  mien  abashed, 

The  wild,  unruly  guest 
His  best  obeyed,  and  mutely  moved 

Beside  the  solemn  priest. 

Unto  a  noiseless  pace 
He  strove  to  curb  his  stride, 

And  blushed  to  hear  his  jack-boots' 
clang 
Amid  the  sandals'  slide. 

The  censer  waved  around 
Its  misty,  sweet  perfume. 

As  over  him  the  minster  great 
Came  with  its  awful  gloom. 


Through      shadowy     aisle,     'neath 
vaulted  roof. 

His  faltering  steps  were  led ; 
Beside  him  was  the  living  saint, 

Beneath,  the  sainted  dead. 

Bespread  with  nun-wrought  tapestry, 

The  holy  altar  stood ; 
Above  it,  carved  by  martyr  hands, 

Arose  the  Holy  Rood ; 

Burned  round  it,  tipped  with  tongues 
of  flame. 

Vowed  candles  white  and  tall ; 
And  frosted  cup  and  patine,  clear, 

In  silver,  painted  all. 

The  prisoned  giant  Music  in 
The  rumbling  organ  rolled. 

And  roared   sweet  thunders  up  to 
heaven. 
Through  all  its  pipes  of  gold. 

He  started.  'Mid  the  prostrate  throng 
Upright,  he  heard  the  hymn 

With  fallen  chin  and  lifted  eye 
That  searched  the  arches  dim ; 

For  in  the  lurking  echoes  there 
Responding,  tone  and  word, 

A  choir  of  answering  seraphim 
Above  he  deemed  he  heard. 

They  saw  him  thus  when  all  was  done. 
Still  rapt  and  pale  as  death ; 

So  passed  he  through  the  banging 
gate. 
Then  drew  a  long-drawn  breath. 

As  to  the  priest  he  turned : 

*'  I  cannot '  go  in  peace,' 
Nor  find  elsewhere  a  man  like  thee. 

Nor  hear  such  strains  as  these ! " 

"  This  is  no  place  for  knights." 
"  Then  I  a  monk  will  be."  * 

"Kneel  down  upon  thy  knee,  fair  son. 
And  tell  thy  sins  to  me." 

*  "Henry  de  Joyeuse,  Comte  du  Bou- 
chage,  Fr^re  piitne  du  Due  de  Joyeuse,  tu6 
k  Coutras.  '  Un  jour  qu'il  passoit  k  Paris 
k  quatre  heures  du  matin,  prfes  du  Convent 
des  Capucins,  apr^s  avoir  passe  la  nuit  en 
d^bauche,  il  s'imagina  que  les  Anges 
chantoient  Matines  dans  le  Convent. 
Frappe  de  cette  idee,  il  se  fit  Capucin.  sous 
le  nom  de  Fr^re-Ange.'  .  .  .  Cette  anecdote 
est  tiree  des  Notes  sur  I'Henriade."  —  Mi- 
moires  de  Sully,  Livre  Dixierae,  Note  67. 


420 


PAKNASSUS. 


"  My  knee  is  stiff  with  steel, 
And  will  not  bend  it  well. 

'  My  sins ! '  A  peerless  knight  like  me, 
What  should  he  have  to  tell  ? 

"  I  never  turned  in  fight 
Till  treason  wrought  my  harm, 

Nor  then,  before  my  shattered  sword 
Weighed  down  my  shattered  arm. 

"  I  never  broke  mine  oath, 

Forgot  my  friend  or  foe, 
Nor  left  a  benefit  unpaid 

With  weal,  or  wrong  with  woe. 

"  '  Keep  thee  from  me ! '  *  I  said, 
Still,  ere  my  blows  began, 

Nor  gashed  mine  unarmed  enemy,  t 
Nor  smote  a  felled  man, 

"Observing  every  rule 

Of  generous  chivalry ; 
And  maid  and  matron  ever  found 

A  champion  leal  in  me. 

"  What  gallantly  I  won 

In  war,  I  did  not  hoard. 
But  spent  as  gallantly  in  peace. 

With  neighbors  round  my  board." 

"  Thy  neighbors,  son  ?    The  serfs 
For  miles  who  tilled  thy  ground  ?" 

**  Tush,  father,  nay  I    The  high-born 
knights 
For  many  a  league  around. 

"  They  were  my  brethren  sworn, 

In  battle  and  in  sport. 
'Twere  wondrous  shame,  should  one 
like  me 

With  beggar  kernes  consort ! 

"  Clean  have  I  made  my  shrift," 
He  said ;  and  so  he  ceased, 

And  bore  a  blithe  and  guileless  cheer. 
That  sore  perplexed  the  priest. 

With  words  both  soft  and  keen. 
He  searched  his  breast  within. 

Still  said  he,  ''So  I  sinnkl  not," 
Or,  "That  is,  sure,  no  sin." 

*  The  regular  form  of  announcement 
that  a  single  combat  had  begun  between 
knights. 

t  "  To  smyte  a  wounded  man  that  may 
not  stonde,  God  deffende  nie  from  such  a 
shame,"  "  Wyt  thou  well,  Syr  G away n,  I 
wyl  neuer  smyte  a  fellyd  knight."  —  Prose 
Romance  qf  King  Arthwr. 


The  abbot  beat  his  breast  : 

"Alack,  the  man  is  lost! 
Erewhile  he  must  have  grieved  away 

The  warning  Holy  Ghost ! 

"His  guardian  angel  he 

Hath  scared  from  him  to  heaven ! 
Who  cannot  mourn,  nor  see,  his  sin, 

How  can  he  be  forgiven  ? 

"E'en  Patmos'  gentle  seer. 
Doth  he  not  say,  in  sooth. 

He  lies  who  saith,  I  have  no  sin. 
Quite  empty  of  the  truth ! 

"  Search  thou  this  sacred  tome." 
"  'Sblood !  —  Saints !  —A  knight  to 
read!" 

The  abbot  read.     The  novice  strove. 
With  duteous  face,  to  heed, 

But  heard  a  hunt  sweep  by. 

And  to  the  door  did  leap, 
Cried,    "Holla,    ho!"    and     then, 
abashed, 

Sat  down  and  dropped  asleep. 

"Such  novice  ne'er  I  saw! 

Sweet  Mary  be  my  speed ! 
For  sure  the  sorer  is  my  task, 

The  sorer  is  his  need." 

He  gazed  upon  him  long. 

With  pondering,  pitying  eyes. 
As  the  leech  on  the  sick  whose  hid- 
den ail 
All  herbs  and  drugs  defies ; 

And,   "Hath  thy  heart  might,"  at 
lastj  "  to-night," 
He  to  Sir  Pavon  said, 
"  When  all  men  sleep,  thy  vigil  to 
keep. 
In  the  crypt  among  the  dead  ? 

"Night  hath  many  a  tongue,  her 
black  hours  among. 
Less  false  than  the  tongues  of  Day, 
While  Mercy  the  prayer  hath  full 
leisure  to  hear, 
Of  all  who  wake  to  pray. 

"  The  mute  swart  queen  hides  many 
a  sin. 
But  oft  to  the  sinner's  heart 
Remorse,  with  the  tale,  she  sends 
to  wail, 
And  thus  atones  in  part." 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


421 


Well-nigh  laughed  the  knight,  "  Ay, 
and  many  a  night, 
Good  father,  do  not  spare. 
Ne'er  yet  have  I  found,  on  or  under 
the  ground. 
The  venture  I  could  not  dare. 

*'  Ten  years  I've  quelled  in  war  lively 
warriors,  near  and  far ; 
Shall  I  shun  a  dead  clerk's  bones 
to  see  ? 

Ne'er  till  now  I  pledged  my  hand  to 
serve  in  the  band 

Of  captain  I  loved  like  thee." 

PABT  ni. 

Sir  Pavon  sat  upon  his  shield, 
And  breathed  the  earthy  damp, 

And  strained  his  empty  ear  to  hear 
The  simmering  of  his  lamp. 

It  made  a  little  tent  of  light. 
Hung  round  with  shadows  dim. 

That  drooped  as  if  the  low-groined 
roof 
Did  crouch  to  fall  on  him. 

The    stunted    columns,    thick    and 
short. 
Like  sentry  gnomes  stood  round ; 
And  lettered  slabs,  that  roofed  the 
dead. 
Lay  thickly  on  the  ground. 

He  watched  to  hear  the  midnight 
lauds. 
But  heard  them  not  until 
He  deemed  it  dawn.     They  swelled 
at  last. 
And  ceased ;  and  all  was  still. 

The  Future  towards  him  marched 
no  more ; 

The  Past  was  dead  and  gone ; 
Time  dwindled  to  a  single  point; 

The  convent-clock  tolled  One. 

Then  the  door  was  oped  and  closed, 

But  by  no  human  hand ; 
And  there  entered  in  a  Cry, 

And  before  him  seemed  to  stand,  — 

A  viewless,  bodiless  Cry, 

That  lifted  the  hair  on  his  head ;  — 
'Twas  small  as  a  new-born  babe's  at 

first, 
But  straightway  it  rose  and  spread, 


Till  it  knocked  against  the  roof. 
And  his  ears  they  rang  and  beat ; 

The    hard  walls    throbbed   around, 
above. 
And  the  stones  crept  under  his  feet ; 

And  when  it  fell  away, 
He  reeled  and  almost  fell ; 

And  fast   for  aid   he   gasped    and 
prayed. 
Till  he  heard  the  matin-bell. 

The  monk  who  came  to  let  him  out 
Scarce  knew  him.     In  that  night. 

His  nut-brown  beard  and  crisped  hair 
Had  turned  to  snowy  white. 


Like  to  a  hunted  beast. 

To  Abbot  Urban' s  cell 
He  rushed ;  and  with  a  foamy  lip 

Down  at  his  feet  he  fell : 

"  I  heard  a  voice,  —  a  voice !  — 

0  father,  lielp !    It  said 
That  I  the  Lord  of  life 

Had  scourged  and  buffeted, 

"  Spit  in  his  face,  and  mocked. 
And  sold  him  to  his  foes ; 

Then,  through  the  hollow  earth, 
In  dreary  triumph  rose 

"  Up,  till  the  words  I  snatched, 

A  fiendish  chorus  dim, 
'  He  did  it  unto  one  of  his  ! 

He  did  it  unto  him!"' 

"My  son,  what  meaneth  this?  " 

"  My  father,  on  my  word. 
In  court  or  camp,  abroad,  at  home, 

1  never  knew  the  Lord ! 

"  I  do  remember  once 
I  had  a  huncliback  slave, 

Who  to  the  beggars  round  my  door 
From  his  own  trencher  gave, 

"  And  made  them  swarm  the  more, 
Despite  the  porter's  blows. 

And  broke  into  my  banquet-hall, 
With  tidings  of  their  woes. 

"  Him  I  chastised  and  sold. 
But  thought  no  harm,  noi-  knew 

The  Lord  so  squalid  minions  had, 
Among  his  chosen  few ; 


422 


PARNASSUS. 


"  But  if  the  man  was  his, 
I'll  freely  give  thee  thrice, 

In  broad,  bright  rounds  of  ruddy  gold, 
The  pittance  of  his  price." 

"  Gold  buys  this  world,  not  heaven. 

This  cannot  make  thee  whole. 
Each  stripe  that  rends  the  slave's 
poor  flesh, 

It  hurts  his  Master's  soul; 

"And  if  the  slave  doth  die," 
He  said  beneath  his  breath, 

"  I  fear  the  Master's  sprite  for  aye 
Rots  in  the  second  death. 

"But  be  of  better  cheer. 

Since  thou  thy  sin  canst  see, 
'Tis  plain  thy  guardian  angel  back 

Hath  flown  from  heaven  to  thee. 

"  The  soul  benumbed  by  sin, 
And  limb  that's  numb  with  frost, 

Are  saved  by  timely  aches.     If  first 
They  reach  the  fire,  they're  lost. 

"  The  Sun  of  righteousness. 
Whose  beaming  smile  on  high, 

With  light,  and  life,  and  love  doth 
fill 
The  mansions  of  the  sky, 

"And  kindles  risen  souls 

Unto  a  rapturous  glow, 
Wlio  duly  sought  his  scattered  rays. 

To  bask  in  them  below, 

"  Seems  but  a  hideous  glare 

Of  blazing  pangs  untold. 
To  those  whom  death  hath  made 
more  pale, 

But  could  not  make  more  cold. 

"  Full  many  a  man  like  thee. 

Unless  by  devils  driven. 
Would  never  turn  his  laggard  steps 

To  hurry  unto  heaven. 

"  Thank  God,  who  oped  thine  ear 

Unto  their  dreary  lay. 
Ere  came  the  night  that  summoned 
thee 

To  chant  with  them  for  aye ! 

"  That  holy  text,  which  through 
Their  gnashing  teeth  they  laughed 

And  screamed,  I  read  thee  yester  eve, 
And  they  with  wonted  craft 


"  Told  o'er,  their  fright  and  pain 
That  thou  shouldst  come  to  share, 

As  birds  by  hissing  serpents  scared 
Drop  down,  through  sheer  despair. 

"  But  in  its  two  pure  hands 

Each  holy  Scripture  still 
Doth  bear  a  blessing  for  the  good, 

A  curse  unto  the  ill. 

"  Heed  thou,  but  do  not  fear 
Too  much  their  threatening  voice, 

Who  tremble  and  believe.     Thou  yet 
Believing  mayst  rejoice. 

"  Take  up  thy  cross  with  speed. 

This  penance  shalt  thou  do ; 
Thyself  in  sad  humility 

To  seek  Christ's  servant  go, 

"  Both  near  and  far;  and  dry 
His  tears  with  thine,  if  still 

His  limbs  the  toil-exacting  earth 
In  misery  tread  and  till." 

His  forehead  from  his  hands 
Upraised  the  haggard  guest : 

"  And  even  here,  and  even  yet, 
For  me  no  heavenly  rest !  " 

The  abbot  shook  his  head : 
"  God  help  thee  now,  poor  son! 

The  heavenly  rest  is  but  for  those 
Who  heavenly  work  have  done. 

"Strife  is  the  bridge  o'er  hell 
'Twixt  sin  and  sin  forgiven; 

Still  purgatory  lies  between 
The  wicked  world  and  heaven. 

"  The  priceless  pearl  is  worth 
The    plunge     through    whelming 
floods. 

The  bitter  years  man  loathes  are  but 
Eternity's  green  buds. 

"  Thou  hast,  in  Satan's  ranks, 
To  harm  been  brisk  and  brave ; 

Thou  wilt  not  shrink,  when  sent  by 
Christ 
To  suffer  and  to  save." 

PART  V. 

Sir  Pavon's  gallant  steed  was  dead; 

Sir  Pavon's  sword  was  broke. 
On  foot  he  went ;  and  in  his  hand 

The  abbot's  staff  he  took, 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


42a 


A-nd  many  an  honr  fared  patiently, 
Beneath  the  parching  sun, 

That  eyed  him  throughliis  riven  wall 
Before  the  day  was  done. 

The  shattered  casements  gaped  and 
stared ; 

Black  charcoal  paved  the  floor ; 
Up  rose  his  hunger-maddened  hound, 

And  bit  him  in  the  door. 

He  climbed  the  scathed  and  tottering 
stair 

Unto  the  sooty  tower ; 
His  rifled  coffers  upside  down 

Lay  in  his  secret  bower. 

With  heavy  heart  and  tread  he  trod 

The  banquet-hall  below; 
The  hollow-voiced  echoes  chid 

Each  other,  to  and  fro. 

A  jeering  face  peeped  in ;  he  heard 

A  titter  and  a  shout ; 
In  rushed  his  rabble  rout  of  hinds, 

And  round  him  danced  about  : 

'^Ho,  worthy  master,  welcome  home ! 

Where  hast  thou  left  thy  sword, 
Thy  kingly  port,  and  lusty  blows  ? 

We  serve  another  lord." 

They  strove  to  trip  him  as  he  went ; 

They  drove  him  from  his  door: 
"  Now  fare  ye  well,  my  fathers'  halls ! 

We  part  to  meet  no  more. 

"  Farewell  my  pride  and  pomp  and 
power ! 

Farewell,  my  slippery  wealth, 
That  bought  my  soul's  sore  malady, 

Nor  stayed  to  buy  my  health ! 

"  Farewell,  my  sturdy  strength,  that 
did 

The  Devil's  work  so  well. 
All  blasted  by  God's  thunderbolts. 

That  on  my  spirit  fell ! 

"  And  thou,  O  brave  and  loyal  Christ, 
Who,  'mid  the  sordid  Jews, 

By  love,  not  fear,  constrained  couldst 
At  Satan's  hands  refuse 

"  The  crown  and  sceptre  of  the  world, 
And  choose  the  cross  and  rod,  — 

Thy  more  than  earthly  manhood  in 
Its  glory  unto  God 


"  Lay  down,  —  accept,   and  do  not 
scorn 

The  beaten  losel  me, 
Who,  worthless  for  thy  service,  come 

For  shelter  unto  thee." 

Walked  with  him  flagging  Weariness ; 

And  Famine  spun  his  head : 
"  I  would,  of  all  my  feasts,  were  left 

One  little  crust  of  bread." 

When  maids  and  stars  their  tapers  lit. 
He  reached  a  wooden  hut ; 

The  chinks  were  gilt  by  light  therein, 
But  close  the  door  was  shut. 

Wliat  seemed  an  aged  woman's  voice 
Within,  with  sob  and  groan. 

Entreated  Heaven  in  agony 
To  send  her  back  her  son : 

"■  The  day  is  night  that  shows  me  not 
His  face,  —  the  voice  of  joy 

Mere  heart-break  till  his  laugh  I  hear ! 
O,  send  me  back  my  boy ! 

" In  pity  send  some  tidings  soon! 

If  thus  I  grieve,  I  dread 
Lest,  when  he  hurries  back  to  me,  — 

Poor  youth !  —  he  find  me  dead. 

"  Let  them  not  tell  me  he  is  dead, 

And  buried  anywhere ! 
Wliat  has  the  ground  or  brine  to  do 

With  his  dear  mouth  and  hair, 

*'  That  I  have  kissed  and  stroked  so 
oft 
There  by  his  empty  chair  ? 
Yon  doublet  new,  I've  wrought  for 
him, 
He'll  soon  come  back  to  wear. 

"  I  brushed  the  very  flies  away. 
That  with  his  brows  did  toy, 

When   tired  he   slept.     How  could 
the  worms 
Or  fishes  eat  my  boy  ? 

"  O  Father,  who  thine  only  Son 
Didst  yield  to  pain  and  death. 

And  know' St  'tis  deadlier  pain  to  do' t. 
Than  give  the  rattling  breath, 

**  If  not  my  boy,  let  unto  me 
His  faith  and  trust  be  given. 

That  I  may  clasp  him  yet  again, 
If  not  on  earth,  in  heaven." 


424 

She 


ceased.       Sir 

knocked ; 
The  door  flew  open  wide. 
Fear  not,  good  mother," 

gan. 
"  O,  is  it  thou?  "  she  cried 


PARNASSUS. 

Pavon     softly 


he  be- 


Then  turned  away  and  wrung  her 
hands. 

*'  If  thou  wilt  give  to  me 
A  morsel,  and  a  cup  of  wine, 

Perchance  thy  charity, 

"  When  ended  is  my  present  quest, 

I  may  full  well  requite. 
If    lives    thy   son,  and    bring    him 
back. 

I  am  a  famous  knight,  — 

"Although  of  late  mine  ambushed 
foe 

Despoiled  me  traitorly,  — 
And  maid  and  matron  ever  found 

A  champion  leal  in  me." 

"  Alack,  I  have  no  wine  nor  flesh. 

Nor  yet  a  crust  of  bread ! 
Herbs  for  my  noontide  meal  I  culled, 

Untasted  still,"  she  said; 

"And  water  from    the    brook    I'll 
bring,  — 

Scant  fare  for  hungry  guest !  — 
But  sit  thee  down  at  least,  and  feed 

Thy  weariness  with  rest. 

"Thou  hast  seen  other   lands   per- 
chance?" 

"  Good  mother,  many  a  one. 
I  pray  you  fill  my  cup  once  more." 

"  O,  hast  thou  seen  my  son  ?  " 

"  Went  he  a  soldier  ?  "     "  Nay,  but 
he 

Was  seized  and  sold  away, 
I  know  not  where.    No  news  of  him 

Has  reached  me  from  that  day. 

"  He  bade  me  still  with  wayfarers 

His  scanty  portion  share. 
Thou  eatest  from  his  platter  now. 

And  sittest  in  his  chair. 

"He  was  so  good!"     "Who  used 
him  so?  " 

"Sir  Pavon  was  his  name." 
His  platter  dropped,  and  over  him 

A  deadly  sickness  came. 


"I   knew  not   half  my  guilt!"   he 
shrieked. 
And  on  his  brow  did  strike ; 
These  mothers  are  like  God,  then,  — 
love 
Ugly  and  fair  alike ! 

" '  T  was  I.     Thou  art  avenged  on  me. 

To  find  him  is  my  quest ; 
Nor  till  'tis  done,  in  life  or  death, 

For  me  is  any  rest. 

"  God's  heaviest  hand  is  for  his  sake 

Meanwhile  upon  me  laid. 
For  his  deliverance  pray,  and  mine ; 

And  take  me  in  his  stead. 

"  A  duteous  son  I'll  be  to  thee 

Until  I  give  him  back. 
I've    many  friends  would    give  us 
steeds 

To  bear  us  on  his  track." 

PART  VI. 

"  Who  may  yon  man  be,  who  on  foot 

Comes  in  his  iron  coat. 
And,  with  an  old  wife  at  his  side. 

Toils  towards  the  castle-moat? 

"  He  looketh  as  Sir  Pavon  should 

If  thirty  years  were  o'er; 
But   he    is    dead,  they  say.     We'll 
know. 

Ho,  there !    The  drawbridge  lower ! 

"  What,  Pavon !    Hast  thou  come  to 
life? 

Thou  lookest  like  a  ghost." 
"Nigh  slain  was  I  by  treachery: 

My  sword  and  all  is  lost. 

"  And  I  was  ill,  and  worse.    Alas ! 

With  thee  I  may  not  bide. 
But  day  and  night,  by  fiends  pursued, 

Upon  a  quest  must  ride, 

"  To  free  my  soul,  that  erst  I  sold 

To  bondage  with  a  slave. 
My  merry  life  is  dead  in  me ! 

Myself  a  haunted  grave ! 

"  Of  thy  dear  love,  long  pledged  and 
sworn, 
Some  food  and  drink  I  pray 
For  this  poor  dame,  and  gold  and 
steeds, 
To  bear  us  on  our  way." 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS.  425 

He  is       "  Out ! "  roared  the  host,  *'  ye  serving 


He  reeled  with  weakness 
starved. 

Lead  hence,  and  feed  him  well ; 
And  when  our  feast  is  done  to-night, 

His  tale  we'll  hear  him  tell. 

"He's  crazed  with  shame,  as  erst 
with  pride,  — 

Perchance  'twill  please  my  guests 
To  list.     My  fool  is  growing  old, 

And  oft  repeats  his  jests." 

Scarce  were  they  at  the  burdened 
board 

Ranged  by  the  seneschal, 
Wlien  Pavon  fed  and  calmed  came  in, 

And  stood  before  them  all. 

And  clasped  each  slackened  hand, 
and  smiled 

In  many  a  well-known  face, 
And  fell  upon  some  cooling  hearts 

Once  more  in  kind  embrace  : 

"  Dear  mates,  how  good  it  is  to  stand 

Again  among  you  here, 
Though  'neath  my  ruined  towers  no 
more 

We  make  our  wonted  cheer ! 

*'  I  must  not  stay ;  but  list  a  word. 

And  mark  it  well,  before 
I  look  my  last  upon  you  all. 

Perchance,  forevermore. 

"  Among  the  tombs  I  sat,  and  heard 

Within  me  or  without,  — 
I  know  not  which,  —  a  horrid  voice : 

It  drives  me  still  about. 

"A  wondrous  thing  it  told  to  me. 

As  terrible  as  new. 
Undreamed  of  to  that  hour  by  me, 

To  this,  I  ween,  by  you. 

"Christ  'mid  the  serfs    hath    men, 
whom  he 

Dear  as  himself  doth  hold ; 
Tlius  he  who  sells  his  Christian  slave. 

His  master,  Christ,  hath  sold, 

"  For  from  the  very  book  of  peace 
The  fiends  have  learned  a  hymn,  — 

'  Who  did  it  unto  one  of  his, 
Hath  done  it  unto  Mw.'  " 

Each  in  his  neighbors'  faces  looked ; 
And  some  were  pale  with  fear ; 


"  Out ! "  roared  the  host 
men, 
What  make  ye  gaping  here, 

"  To  swallow  what  concerns  you  not  ? 

Such  ravings  if  they  hear. 
They'  11  rave  themselves.     I  saw  them 
all 

Prick  up  each  meddling  ear. 

"Your  pardon,  noble  comrades  all; 

A  very  sorry  jest 
Was  this  to  make  you  sport  withal ; 

He  told  me  of  a  quest." 

"  My  quest  it  is  to  find  and  free 
The  hunchback,  whom  of  old, 

When  thou  wert  wassailing  with  me 
At  Christmastide,  I  sold. 

"  Look  not  so  darkly  on  me,  friends, 
I  will  not  mar  your  feast ; 

But,    Raymond,    for  the     red-roan 
steeds 
I  lent  thee,  give  at  least 

"To  me  one  jennet,  mule,  or  ass, 

That  I  thereon  may  lead 
His  blister-footed  mother  hence, 

And  make  the  better  speed." 

"  Poor  man,  his  case  is  pitiful. 

If  madman  e'er  I  saw. 
He's  mad !    What  say  ye  ?    Let  him 
go? 

Or  give  him  chains  and  straw ! " 

"  He  was  a  gallant  champion  late ! " 
"  He's  harmless ;  let  him  go." 

"Nay,  if  he  stirreth  up  the  serfs 
I  cannot  count  him  so." 

Then  rage  brought  back  Sir  Pavon' s 
strength : 

He  dashed  the  casement  through. 
Leaped  head  long  down,  and  all  in  steel 

He  swam  the  moat  below. 

Forth  swarmed  the  varlets  sent,  for 
him. 

But  soon  returned  without. 
So  hotly  with  the  abbot's  staff 

He  'mongst  them  laid  about. 

His  comrades  from  the  battlements 
Looked  wondering  down  to  see 

The  knight  the  hobbling  crone  await, 
With  pity  and  with  glee. 


426 


PAKNASSUS. 


He  paced  to  meet  her  courteously ; 

He  propped  her  with  his  arm, 
And  with  his  staff,  and  bent  as  if 

To  soothe  her  weak  alarm ; 

But  with  a  bitter  laugh  he  said, 
"Sure,  he  who  findeth  out 

How  fickle  are  the  world's    sweet 
smiles. 
Can  do  its  smiles  without." 

PART  VII. 

Long  years    of   hunger,   cold,    and 
heat. 
And  home-sick  toil  in  vain ;  — 
Long  years  of  wandering   up    and 
down, 
O'er  inland,  coast,  and  main ;  — 

Long  years  of  asking  still  for  one, 
And  longing  day  and  night. 

Who,  ever  present  with  the  soul, 
Hath  vanished  from  the  sight ! 

The  freeman  like  a  growing  tree 
Thrives,  rooted  in  his  place ; 

The  bondman,  like  a  withered  leaf. 
Flits  on  and  leaves  no  trace. 

Sir  Pavon's  armor  rusted  off; 

He  seemed  no  more  a  knight; 
Yet  ever  to  himself  he  said. 

While  raged  his  inward  fight, 

"How  quickly  may  a  wrong  be  done. 

How  slowly  done  away! 
Shall  all  eternity  repair 

My  trespass  of  a  day?" 

Wliile  some  said,  "East,"  and  some 
said,  "West," 
And  most,  "I  cannot  tell," 
They  ate  the  stranger's  crusts,  and 
drank 
At  many  a  stranger's  well. 

He  ever  walked,  or  stood,  or  sat. 
Between  her  and  the  blast. 

She    cheered    him    with    forgiving 
words, 
And  begged  his  scant  repast. 

In  penitent  and  pardoning  woe, 
Thus  went  they  hand  in  hand, 

The  master  and  the  slave.     They 
trod 
The  cactus-hatching  sand. 


They  stood  beneath  the  snowy  pole, 
Where,  quenched,  the  heavenward 
eye, 

Sinks  dizzy  back  to  earth,  beneath 
The  crumbling,  sinking  sky. 

PART    VIII. 

"  O,  sail-borne  trader,  hast  thou  seen, 
In  lands  beneath  the  sun. 

Or  in  the  shadow  of  the  pole, 
MyAnselm?    O  my  son!" 

"A  pilgrim,  dame?"  "A  slave." 
"  A  slave ! 

Ask,  have  I  seen  a  sheep ! 
Ay,  flocks  and  flocks,  where'er  I  go. 

Yon  Moors  their  hundreds  keep,  — 

"  The  lazy  tawny  dogs !  —  beyond, 
Where  'twixt  these  fronting  lands 

The  writhing  sea  his  pent-up  way 
Tears  'twixt  the  rocks  and  sands." 

"  He  is  like  no  one  else.  His  face 
Is  wondrous  mild  and  fair ; 

His  eyes  are  kind  and  bright ;  and 
fine 
And  silky  is  his  hair." 

"Ha,  ha!  So  whines  the  shepherd 
lad 

Whose  petted  ewe  hath  strayed ! " 
"  He  bore  a  hump  upon  his  back," 

Sir  Pavon  softly  said,  — 

"  Was  helpful  to  the  poor  beyond 
The  custom  of  mankind." 

Before  the  statelier  questioner 
The  merchant  searched  his  mind. 

"  Such  slave  I  saw  in  Barbary, 
A  twelvemonth  scarce  agone. 

A  fever-smitten  sailor  there 
We  left  to  die  alone ;  — 

"It  grieved  me  much.  We  could 
not  choose. 

Our  venture  had  been  lost, 
Had  we  not  seized  the  first  fair  gale 

To  sweep  us  from  the  coast. 

"  I  hurried  back.    I  thought  to  see 

His  living  face  no  more. 
But  haply  give  him  burial. 

He  met  me  on  the  shore, 


NARRATIVE  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


427 


"  Thin  as  this  blade,  and  white  as  is 

This  handle  of  my  knife. 
A  slave,  he  said,  had  ta'en  him  in 

And  nursed  him  like  a  wife, 


him. 
How  called  you  yours?"     "His 

name 
Was  Anselm."     "  Ay,  and  so  was 

his, 
It  is  the  very  same. 

"  Old  Hassan's  steward  in  the  sun 
Doth  beat  him  to  and  fro ; 

He  limps  with  water  from  the  tanks 
To  make  the  melons  grow. 

"See  how  my   Sea-gull    flaps    her 
wings. 

Impatient  for  the  deep ! 
Anon  shall  she  to  Tripoli 

So  lightly  dart  and  leap ; 

**  And  for  that  bounteous  deed  of  his 
His  mother  shall  he  see ;  — 

What  costs  a  good  turn  now  and 
then?  — 
Embark  and  sail  with  me, 

*'  For  nothing,  — if  ye  nothing  have. 

They'll  call  for  little  food, 
On  landlocked  billows,  sickened  by 

The  tossing  of  the  flood." 

The   anchor   climbed.     The    wind 
blew  fair, 
But  ere  they  neared  the  pier 
The  old  wife  on  death's  threshold 
lay, 
Distraught  with  hope  and  fear. 

"  How  canst  thou  free  him  from  his 
woes? 

Thou  hast  nor  friends  nor  gold. 
How  may  I  even  crawl  to  him 

His  misery  to  behold  ? 

"  O  master,  trail  me  through  the  dust 
And  leave  me  at  his  feet ! " 

"Nay,  thou  wert  patient  all  those 
years. 
Here,  sheltered  from  the  heat, 

"  A  little  longer  wait  and  pray ; 

It  may  be  but  an  hour. 
Our  Lord,  who  bade  to  succor  him, 

I  think  shall  give  the  power. 


**  And,  merchant,  if  he  fly  with  me 
Wilt    bear  him    hence?"      "My 
head, 
And  thine,  were  lost  belike!    Art 
mad? 
'Twould  surely  cost  my  trade. 

"  I   buy   and    sell,    but    steal   not, 
slaves!" 
"Thou'rt   known   to    Hassan?" 
"Ay." 
"Then  lead  me  to  him;    and  the 
Lord, 
I  think,  the  slave  shall  buy. 

"  Then  wilt  thou  bear  him  hence, 
and  her?" 

"Ay,  on  mine  honest  word. 
Oft  as  I  may,  I  gladly  do 

A  pleasure  to  the  Lord." 

Turbaned  and  robed  old  Hassan  sat. 

An  atmosphere  of  rest 
Hung  brooding  o'er  his  soft  divan, 

His  beard  slept  on  his  breast. 

His  rolling  eyes  upon  the  floor 
Did  round  about  him  fall, 

To  thread  the  mazy  arabesques 
Paved  in  his  marble  hall. 

They  shone  and  glimmered   moist 
with  dew, 

While,  robed  in  spangled  spray. 
Amidst  them  high  a  fountain  danced 

In  whispering,  tittering  play. 

No  joy,  grief,  awe,  nor  doubt  looked 
through 
His  features  swart  and  still ; 
"I  ought"  had  ne'er  been  written 
there 
But  petrified,  "I  will." 

"  What  wouldst  thou,  merchant?" 
"Nothing,  I; 

This  godly  man  would  speak, 
A  very  godly  man !  —  Methinks 

His  wits  are  somewhat  weak." 

"  Good  Hassan,  for  thy  hunchback 

slave 

I've  sought  through  dreary  years ; 

Wilt  give  him  up?"     "In  change 

for  what?" 

"  Our  prayers  and  grateful  tears." 


428 


PARNASSUS. 


"  I  want  them  not."     *'  Thou  mayst 
one  day  I 

When  misbelievers  stand 
Amazed  in  judgment,  he  shall  plead 

For  thee  at  God's  right  hand; 

"  His  mother,  too;  —  they're  dear  to 
Christ ; 

I  know  it  all  too  well ! 
And  I  up  from  my  lower  place 

Will  cry  aloft  and  tell, 

"  That  thou  art  he  my  sinking  soul 

Who  lifted  out  of  hell ; 
Till  all  the  saints  shall  join  with  me, 

O  blessed  infidel!" 

"  Hast  nothing  else  to  offer  ?  "    "Ay, 

To  serve  thee  faithfully, 
Another  slave  I'll  give, — myself, — 

As  stout  a  wight  as  he." 

"  Nought  hast  thou  of  his  look ;  yet 
sure 
He  is  thy  son  or  brother?" 
"My  serf  of  yore."     "  'Tis  strange, 
if  true! 
Most  Christians  hate  each  other. 

"I  take  thy  proffer,  false  or  fair; 

But  if  to  me  thou  liest. 
And  seek' St  to  steal  thyself  away. 

E'en  in  my  gates  thou  diest." 

He  clapped  his  hands ;  and  in  there 
rushed 
A  turbaned  menial  throng. 
Strange  words  he  spake.    A  dusky 
Moor 
Good  Pavon  led  along. 

With  bounding  heart,  and  beaded 
brow, 
And  paling,  glowing  cheek, 
And  trembling  lips  compressed,  that 
strove 
To  brace  themselves  to  speak, 

Through  cool,  dank  courts,  and  sul- 
try paths. 

Till,  'twixt  the  twinkling  twigs 
Of  citron,  and  of  orange-trees. 

And  sun-bathed  purple  figs. 

He  saw  the  fattening  melons  bask 
On  beds  both  long  and  broad, 

And  Anselm,  staggering  forth  to  them, 
Bent  'neath  his  watery  load. 


He  oped  his  mouth  to  call  on  him ; 

Amazed,  he  did  but  choke ; 
For  with  its  mighty  wrath  and  joy, 

His  great  heart  almost  broke. 

He     darted     on     his     track,     and 
wrenched 
His  pitcher  from  his  hand. 
The  slave  dropped  back  his  drooping 
head, 
And  strove  to  understand, 

With  bony  fingers  interlaced 

His  dazzled  eyes  above. 
Why  came  the  tall  mute  man  to  him, 

In  enmity  or  love. 

Then  muttered  he,  "  This  scorching 
sun 

At  last  hath  fired  my  brain ! 
I  seem  to  see  one  far  away. 

Perchance  long  dead  again,  — 

"  Sir  Pavon !    'Tis  some  fancy,  bred 
Of  famine,  wild  and  weak. 

Or  fever.     Wherefore  gaze  on  it  ? 
If  'twas  a  man  'twould  speak." 

Then  Pavon  in  a  storm  of  tears 

Fell  crying  on  his  breast : 
"Forgive  me,  brother,  if  thou  canst! 

I've  known  no  peace  nor  rest, 

"For  years  or  ages,  but  to  right 

The  wrong  I  did  to  thee, 
And  mine  own  soul,  roamed  o'er  the 
earth ! 

From  henceforth  thou  art  free." 

"Sh-   Pavon!     Is  it   thou?  — and 
here?" 

"  Ay;  and  I  hold  thee  fast 
In  verity,  as  oft  in  dreams. 

When,  as  my  slumber  past, 

"'Mid  fading  forms  I  clutched  at 
thine, 
'Mid  fading  visioned  lands. 
And    shouting   woke,  with    bloody 
nails 
Clenched  in  mine  empty  hands." 

"  God !  Heardst  thou  then  my  hope- 
less prayers  ? 

He's  saved !  —  And  am  I  free  ?  " 
"  Ay,  go  thy  ways  in  joy,  poor  friend, 

Nor  cease  to  pray  for  me. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  AND   BALLADS. 


429 


"  The   merchant    Andrew   on    the 
shore 

Awaits  thee,  in  his  hark. 
His  homeward  voyage  bears  him  by 

The  abbey  of  St.  Mark. 

"  The  monks,  for  Abbot  Urban's  sake. 
Will  house  and  feed  thine  age 

When  thou  hast  told  to  them  the  end 
Of  Pavon's  pilgrimage, 

"  By  him  enjoined.    Though  he  be 
dead, 

He  must  remembered  be 
By  novices  he  nurtured."     "  Sir, 

Dost  thou  not  come  with  me  ? 

' '  Long  wilt  thou  tarry  ?  "     "Be  con- 
tent." 

"  Not  to  forsake  thee  here. 
I'll  serve  thee  in  this  homesick  land 

For  love,  as  erst  from  fear." 

"Go  thou.      I    stay."      A    change 
came  o'er 
The  hunchback's  raptured  face: 
"Why  stays  he,  Selim,  know'st?" 
"To  draw 
Our  water  in  thy  place." 

He  tore  his  hair ;  he  turned  away ; 

He  spake :  "It  shall  not  be ! 
All    blessings    bless    thee    for    the 
thought, 

But  'twere  not  meet  for  thee  I 

"  Few  years  are  left  me  on  the  earth ; 

And  God  hath  taught  to  me 
That  willing  bondage  borne  in  Christ 

Is  loftier  liberty." 

"  Then  grudge  it  not  unto  thy  lord," 

St.  Pavon  following  said. 
The  slave  took  up  his  water-pots, 

Moved  on,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  This  is  my  penance  I  must  do, 

Or  be  for  aye  abhorred 
Of  Heaven."     "I'll  help  thee  bear 
it." 
"Nay,  stint  not  mine  earned  re- 
ward!" 

St.  Pavon's  eyes  and  hands  on  his 

He  fixed,  and  joyously 
Cried,    "Laggard  son,   thy  mother 
waits 

Among  the  ships  for  thee !" 


The  new  slave  let  the  melons  thirst 
Till,  through  the  twinkling  twigs 

Of  citron,  and  of  orange-flowers, 
And  sun-bathed  purple  figs, 

He  saw  the  hunchback  hurry  o'er 
The  beach,  and  scale  the  deck, 

Towards     outstretched    arms,    that 
like  a  trap 
Did  spring  and  catch  his  neck. 

Then  out  he  let  his  pent-up  breath, 
Which  seemed  to  blow  away, 

In  one  great  sigh,  his  life's  great 
woe, 
And  to  himself  did  say, 

"Howe'er,  where'er  now,    in   this 
world 

Or  that,  my  lot  may  fall, 
I  bear  this  scene  in  memory, 

And  I  can  bear  it  all." 

Then  to  his  task  he  turned,  with 

mien 
As  eager  and  as  bold 
As  when  his  brethren's  blood  plashed 

round 
His  iron  march  of  old. 

Joy  drained  his  lees  of  life  nigh- 
spent 
All  in  one  brimming  cup,  — 
One  wasteful    draught    of   feverish 
strength,  — 
And  bade  him  drink  it  up. 

He  dragged  the  sinking  waters  out : 
He  dashed  them  on  the  ground ; 

He  panted  to  and  fro ;  well-nigh 
The  melons  swam  or  drowned. 

Sly  women's  jet  and  diamond  eyes 

Did  near  the  lattice  lurk, 
And  twinkle  through  its  screen,  to 
see 

The  Christian  madman  work. 

The  steward  cried,  "  By  Mahmoud's 
beard. 

Some  demon  toils  within 
Yon  unbeliever,  or  a  troop 

Of  slaves  in  one's  shrunk  skin." 

Above  him  like  a  vulture  came 
The  noontide  sun,  and  beat 

Upon  his  old  bald  head,  and  pricked 
Through  all  his  frame  with  heat ; 


430 


PARNASSUS. 


It  set  but  spurs  unto  his  zeal : 
"  O  Christ,  and  didst  thou  see 

My  brother  in  this  torment  gasp, 
And  through  my  cruelty ! " 

His  short-lived  might  sank  with  the 
light; 
Black  turned  the  red-hot  day ; 
He  scarce  could  drag  to  Anselm's 
lair 
His  heavy  limbs  away. 

He  heard  a  sound ;  he  felt  a  light ; 

He  deemed  it  was  the  dawn. 
He  oped  his  eyes ;  and,  lo !  the  veil 

Of  glory  was  withdrawn ; 

A  radiance  brighter  than  the  sun, 
And  sweeter  than  the  moon. 

Showed  earth  a  part  of  heaven !    He 
sighed, 
"  'Tis  a  God-granted  boon,  — 

"A  vision  sent  to  cheer  my  soul,  — 

A  glimpse  of  Paradise ! 
O,  fade  not  yet !    A  moment  more, 

Ere  to  my  toil  I  rise." 

A  quivering  fanned   the  air;    and 
shapes 
Like  winged  Joys  stood  round. 
"Arise!"   they  said.    He  rose  and 
left 
His  body  on  the  ground. 

His  weariness  and  age.    Surprised 

With  sudden  buoyancy 
And  ease,  he  turned  and  saw  aghast 

His  ghastly  eflfigy. 

"'Tis  but  a  dream!"     "'Tis  heav- 
en."    "Forme? 

Not  yet !  not  yet ! "  he  said ; 
"  I  am  a  traitor !    Give  me  time  I 

O,  let  me  not  be  dead  I 


"In  mercy  put  me  back  to  toil 
And  scorch,  nor  bid  me  brook. 

Ere  I've  avenged  him  well  on  me, 
Mine  outraged  Master's  look!" 

A  tender  smile  glowed  through  them 
all. 

"  Brave  martyr,  do  not  fear. 
Our  Master  calls !    He  waits  for  thee 

To  share  his  bridal  cheer ! 

"  Full  many  a  weary  year  is  told, 
As  mortals  tell  their  years. 

Since  loud  we  struck  our  harps,  and 
sang 
Thy  triumph  o'er  thy  tears." 

Before    him,  -spreading   welcoming 
arms, 

A  shining  Urban  stood : 
"  God  gave  thee  grace  to  overcome 

Thine  evil  with  thy  good. 

"My  lesson,  brother,  hast  forgot?  — 

I  taught  to  thee  of  yore. 
That   blessings    hid,    their    threats 
amid. 

The  awful  Scriptures  bore." 

Then  Pavon  to  his  dear  embrace 
In  wildered  transports  sprang ; 

And  up  the  sunny  morn  they  soared. 
The  dwindling  earth  did  hang 

Beneath.   The  air  flapped,  white  with 
wings 

That  thickened  all  about ; 
And  wide  a  song  of  triumph  pealed 

And  rang  this  burden  out : 

"  To  wrest  him  out  of  Satan's  hands 
His  charity  sufficed ; 

He  did  it  unto  one  of  Christ's, 
He  did  it  unto  Christ  ! " 
Sara  H.  Pai^frey.  [E.  Foxton.J 


vm. 


SONGS. 


SONGS. 


MASQUE  OF   PLEASURE   AND 
VIRTUE. 

SONG  I. 

Come  on,  come  on,  and  where  you  go 

So  interweave  the  curious  knot 

As  even  the  Observer  scarce  may 

know 
Which  lines  are  pleasure,  and  which 

not: 
First  figure  out  the  doubtful  way 
At  which  awhile  the  youth  should 

stay 
Where  she  and  Virtue  did  contend 
Which    should    have    Hercules    to 

friend. 
Then  as  all  actions  of  mankind 
Are  but  a  labyrinth  or  maze, 
So  let  your  dances  be  entwined. 
Yet  not  perplex  men  unto  gaze : 
But  measured,  and  so  numerous  too. 
As  men  may  read  each  act  they  do ; 
And,  when  they  see    your    graces 

meet, 
Admire  the  wisdom  of  your  feet : 
For  dancing  is  an  exercise 
Not  only  shows  the  mover's  wit, 
But  maketh  the  beholder  wise, 
As  he  hath  power  to  rise  to  it. 

SONG  II. 

O  more  and  more,  this  was  so  well 
As  praise  wants  half  his  voice  to  tell. 
Again  yourselves  compose, 
And  now  put  all  the  aptness  on 
Of  figure,  that  proportion 
Or  color  can  disclose : 
That,  if  those  silent  arts  were  lost, 
'Design  and  Picture,  they  might  boast 
From  you  a  newer  ground 
Instructed  by  the  heightening  sense 
Of  dignity  and  reverence 
lu  their  true  motions  found. 
28 


Begin,  begin ;  for  look,  the  pair 
Do  longing  listen  to  what  air 
You  form  your  second  touch 
That  they  may  vent  their  murmuring 

hymns 
Just  to  the  tune  you  move  your  limbs, 
And  wish  their  own  were  such. 
Make  haste,  make  haste,  for  this 
The  labyrinth  of  Beauty  is. 

SONG  III. 

It  follows  now  you  are  to  prove 
The  subtlest  maze  of   all,  —  that's 
Love, 
And,  if  you  stay  too  long. 
The  fair  will  think  you  do   them 

wrong. 
Go  choose  among  them,  with  a  mind 
As  gentle  as  the  stroking  wind 
Runs  o'er  the  gentler  flowers. 
And  so  let  all  your  actions  smile. 
As  if  they  meant  not  to  beguile 
The  ladies,  but  the  hours. 
Grace,  laughter,  and  discourse 
may  meet. 
And  yet  the  beauty  not  go  less : 
For  what  is  noble  should  be  sweet, 
But  not  dissolved  in  wantonness. 
Will  you  that  I  give  the  law 
To  all  your  sport,  and  sum  it 
It  should  be  such  should  envy  draw. 
But  overcome  it. 

Ben  Jonson. 

SONG. 

Shake  ofE  your  heavy  trance, 
And  leap  into  a  dance, 
Such  as  no  mortals  use  to  tread, 
Fit  only  for  Apollo  — 
To  play  to,  for  the  moon  to  lead. 
And  all  the  stars  to  follow ! 
O  blessed  youth !  for  Jove  doth  pause, 
Laying  aside  his  graver  laws 
433 


434 


PARNASSUS. 


For  this  device : 
And  at  the  wedding  such  a  pair 
Each  dance  is  taken  for  a  prayer, 

Each  song  a  sacrifice. 
You  should  stay  longer  if  we  durst ; 
Away !    Alas !  that  he  that  first 
Gave  Time  wild  wings  to  fly  away, 
Has  now  no  power  to  make  him  stay. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


MARY  DONNELLY. 

Oh!  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it's  you 

I  love  the  best! 
If  fifty  girls  were  round  you,  I'd 

hardly  see  the  rest. 
Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the 

place  be  where  it  will, 
Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they 

bloom  before  me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that's 

flowing  on  a  rock, 
How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they 

are !  and  they  give  me  many  a 

shock. 
Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine  and 

wetted  in  a  shower, 
Can  ne'er  express  the  charming  lip 

that  has  me  in  its  power. 

Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome, 

her  eyebrows  lifted  up ; 
Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and 

smooth  like  a  china  cup ; 
Her  hair's  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so 

weighty  and  so  fine ; 
It's  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and 

gathered  in  a  twine. 

The    dance    o'    last    Whit-Monday 

night  exceeded  all  before ; 
No  pretty  girl  for  miles  about  was 

missing  from  the  floor ; 
But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  lov«,  and 

O  but  she  was  gay ! 
She  danced  a  jig,  she  sang  a  song, 

that  took  my  heart  away. 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her 

steps  were  so  complete. 
The  music  nearly  killed    itself   to 

listen  to  her  feet ; 
The   fiddler  moaned  his  blindness, 

he  heard  her  so  much  praised. 
But  blessed  himself  he  wasn't  deaf 

when  once  her  voice  she  raised. 


And    evermore    I'm    whistling    or 

lilting  what  you  sung ; 
Your  smile  is  always  in  my  heart, 

your  name  beside  my  tongue ; 
But  you've  as  many  sweethearts  as 

you'd  count  on  both  your  hands, 
And  for  myself  there's  not  a  thumb 

or  little  finger  stands. 

Oh,  you're  the  flower  of  womankind 

in  country  or  in  town ; 
The  higher  I  exalt  you,  the  lower 

I'm  cast  down. 
If  some  great  lord  should  come  this 

way,  and  see  your  beauty  bright, 
And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I'd  own  it 

was  but  right. 

Oh  might  we  live  together  in  a  lofty 

palace  hall, 
Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where 

scarlet  curtains  fall ! 
Oh  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage 

mean  and  small ; 
With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and 

mud  the  only  wall ! 

Oh!    lovely    Mary  Donnelly,    your 

beauty's  my  distress. 
It's  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine, 

but  I'll  never  wish  it  less. 
The  proudest  place  would  fit  your 

face,  and  I  am  poor  and  low ; 
But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear, 

wherever  you  may  go ! 

Alllngham. 

SONG. 

Spring  all  the  graces  of  the  age, 

And  all  the  Loves  of  time ; 

Bring  all  the  pleasures  of  the  stage, 

And  relishes  of  rhyme : 

Add  all  the  softnesses  of  Courts, 

The  looks,  the  laughters,  and  the 

sports : 
And  mingle  all  their  sweets  and  salts 
That  none  may  say  the  triumph  halts. 
Ben  Jonson:  Neptune's  Triumph. 


SONG  TO  CERES. 

Thou  that  art  our  Queen  again. 
And  may  in  the  sun  be  seen  again,  - 
Come,  Ceres,  come. 
For  the  War's  gone  home, 
And  the  fields  are  quiet  and  green 
again. 


SONGS. 


435 


The  air,  dear  Goddess,  sighs  for  thee, 

The  light-heart  brooks  arise  for  thee, 

And  the  poppies  red 

On  tlieir  wistful  bed 

Turn  up  their  dark  blue  eyes  for  thee. 

Laugh  out  in  the  loose  green  jerkin 
That's  fit  for  a  Goddess  to  work  in, 
With  shoulders  brown. 
And  the  wheaten  crown 
About  thy  temples  perking. 

And  with  thee  came  Stout  Heart  in, 

And  Toil  that  sleeps  his  cart  in, 

Brown  Exercise, 

The  ruddy  and  wise, 

His  bathed  forelocks  parting. 

And  Dancing  too,  that's  lither 
Than  willow  or  birch,  drop  hither, 
To  thread  the  place 
With  a  finishing  grace, 
And  carry  our  smooth  eyes  with  her. 
Leigh  Hunt. 


ARABY'S  DAUGHTER. 

Farewell,  —  farewell  to  thee,  Ara- 
by's  daughter! 
(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the 
dark  sea,) 
No  pearl    ever    lay  under    Oman's 
green  water. 
More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy 
spirit  in  thee. 

Oh!  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to 
thee  growing, 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  love's 
witchery  came, 
Like  the  wind  of  the  South  o'er  a 
summer  lute  blowing, 
And    hushed    all  its  music,   and 
withered  its  frame. 

But  long  upon  Araby's  green  sunny 
highlands. 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  re- 
member the  doom 
Of  her  who  lies  sleeping  among  the 
Pearl  Islands, 
With  nought  but  the  sea-star  to 
light  up  her  tomb. 

And  still  when  the  merry  date-season 
is  burning, 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the 
young  and  the  old, 


The  happiest  there,  from  their  pas- 
time returning, 
At  sunset,   still  weep  when  thy 
story  is  told. 

The  young  village  maid,  when  with 
flowers  she  dresses 
Her  dark  flowing  hair,  for  some 
festival  day. 
Will  think  of  thy  fate,  till,  neglect- 
ing her  tresses. 
She    mournfully  turns    from  her 
mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  beloved  of  her  hero ! 
forget  thee ; 
Though    tyrants  watch  over  her 
tears  as  they  start ; 
Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  hero 
she'll  set  thee, 
Embalmed  in  the  innermost  shrine 
of  her  heart. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  love- 
liest amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird 
has  wept; 
With  many  a  shell,  in  whose  hollow 
wreathed  chamber 
We,  Peris  of  Ocean,  by  moonlight 
have  slept. 

We'll    dive  where    the    gardens  of 
coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at 
thy  head ; 
We'll  seek  where  the  sands  of  the 
Caspian  are  sparkling, 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over 
thy  head. 

Farewell  —  farewell  —  until    Pity's 
sweet  fountain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and 
the  brave. 
They'll  weep  for  the  chieftain  who 
died  on  that  mountain, 
They'll  weep  for  the  maiden  who 
sleeps  in  this  wave. 

Moore. 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE 
THROUGH  TARA'S  HALLS. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's 

halls 
The  soul  of  music  shed. 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 
As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 


436 


PARNASSUS. 


So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 

And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for 

praise 
Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more ! 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells ; 

The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 

Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes. 

The  only  throb  she  gives 

Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks. 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

Moore. 


CANADIAN  BOAT-SONGT. 

[Written  on  the  River  St.  Lawrence  ] 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime 

Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars 
keep  time. 

Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look 
dim. 

We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting 
hymn. 

Row,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs 
fast. 

The  rapids  are  near  and  the  day- 
light's past. 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? 

There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave 
to  curl. 

But,  when  the  wind  blows  off  the 
shore. 

Oh,  sweetly  we'll  rest  our  weary  oar. 

Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs 
fast, 

The  rapids  are  near  and  the  day- 
light's past. 

Utawas'  tide !  this  trembling  moon 

Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges 
soon. 

Saint  of  this  green  isle!  hear  our 
prayers. 

Oh,  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favor- 
ing airs. 

Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs 
fast, 

The  rapids  are  near  and  the  day- 
light's past. 

Moore. 


THE  SAILOR. 

A  ROMAIC  BALLAD. 

Thou  that  hast  a  daughter 

For  one  to  woo  and  wed. 
Give  her  to  a  husband 

With  snow  upon  his  head ; 
Oh,  give  her  to  an  old  man. 

Though  little  joy  it  be. 
Before  the  best  young  sailor 

That  sails  upon  the  sea ! 

How  luckless  is  the  sailor 

When  sick  and  like  to  die ; 
He  sees  no  tender  mother. 

No  sweetheart  standing  by. 
Only  the  captain  speaks  to  him,  — 

Stand  up,  stand  up,  young  man, 
And  steer  the  ship  to  haven. 

As  none  beside  thee  can. 

Thou  says't  to  me,  "  Stand,  stand 
up;" 

I  say  to  thee,  take  hold. 
Lift  me  a  little  from  the  deck, 

My  hands  and  feet  are  cold. 
And  let  my  head,  I  pray  thee. 

With  handkerchiefs  be  bound ; 
There,  take  my  love's  gold  handker- 
chief. 

And  tie  it  tightly  round. 

Now  bring  the    chart,  the    doleful 
chart ; 

See,where  these  mountains  meet  — 
The  clouds  are  thick  around  their 
head. 

The  mists  around  their  feet : 
Cast  anchor  here ;  'tis  deep  and  safe 

Within  the  rocky  cleft ; 
The  little  anchor  on  the  right, 

The  great  one  on  the  left. 

And  now  to  thee,  O  captain. 

Most  earnestly  I  pray, 
That  they  may  never  bury  me 

In  church  or  cloister  gray ;  — 
But  on  the  windy  sea-beach. 

At  the  ending  of  the  land, 
All  on  the  surfy  sea-beach. 

Deep  down  into  the  sand. 

For  there  will  come  the  sailors, 
Their  voices  I  shall  hear. 

And  at  casting  of  the  anchor 
The  yo-ho  loud  and  clear ; 


SONGS. 


437 


And  at  hauling  of  the  anchor 
The  yo-ho  and  the  cheer,  — 

Farewell,  my  love,  for  to  thy  bay 
I  never  more  may  steer ! 

Allingham. 


THE  BOATIE  ROWS. 

Oh,  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  better  may  she  speed ; 
And  liesome  may  the  boatie  row 

That  wins  the  bairnies'  bread. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed ; 
And  weel  may  the  boatie  row 

That  wins  the  bairnies'  bread. 

I  coost  my  line  in  Largo  Bay, 
And  fishes  I  catch ed  nine ; 
'Twas  three  to  boil,  and  three    to 
fry, 
And  three  to  bait  the  line. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed. 
And  happy  be  the  lot  o'  a' 
.  Wha  wishes  her  to  speed. 

Oh,  weel  may  the  boatie  row. 

That  fills  a  heavy  creel. 
And  deeds  us  a'  frae  tap  to  tae, 

And  buys  our  parritch  meal. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows,  indeed, 
And  happy  be  the  lot  o'  a' 

That  wish  the  boatie  speed. 

When  Jamie  vowed  he  wad  be  mine. 

And  wan  frae  me  my  heart, 
Oh,  muckle  lighter  grew  my  creel  — 

He  swore  we'd  never  part. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel ; 
And  muckle  lighter  is  the  load 

When  love  bears  up  the  creel. 

My  kurtch  I  put  upo'  my  head. 

And  dressed  mysel'  fu'  braw; 
I  trow  my  heart  was    dough    and 
wae, 

Wlien  Jamie  gade  awa'. 
But  weel  may  the  boatie  row. 

And  lucky  be  her  part, 
And  lightsome  be  the  lassie's  care 

That  yields  an  honest  heart. 

Anonymous. 


THERE'S    NAE    LUCK    ABOUT 
THE  HOUSE. 

But  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark  ? 
Ye  jauds,  fling  bye  your  wheel ! 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the 
house, 
There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's     nae    luck    about    the 
house, 
When  our  gudeman's  awa. 

Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark. 
When  Colin' s  at  the  door? 

Rax  down  my  cloak  —  I'll    to    the 
quay. 
And  see  him  come  ashore. 

Rise  up  and  make  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  cotton  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday's  coat. 

Make  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes. 
Their  stockings  white  as  snaw ; 

It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman  — 
He  likes  to  see  them  braw. 

There  are  twa  hens  into  the  crib 
Hae  fed  this  month  or  mair ; 

Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks 
about. 
That  Colin  weel  may  fare. 

My  Turkey  slippers  I'll  put  on, 
My  stockins  pearl-blue,  — 

It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman. 
For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Sae  sweet  his  voice,  sae  smooth  his 
tongue. 

His  breath's  like  cauler  air; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't. 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again, 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downrichtdizzy  wi' the  thought. 
In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 
There's    nae    luck    about    the 
house, 
There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's    nae    luck    about   the 
house, 
/"hen  ou 
William  Julius  Mickle. 


438 


PARNASSUS. 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent. 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 
We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 
We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John ; 
But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

Burns. 


OFT  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT. 


Oft  ill  the  stilly  night, 
Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound 
me. 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears. 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimmed  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 
Ere  Slumber's  chain  has   bound 
me. 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  linked  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 
Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled. 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

Moore. 


JEANIE  MORRISON. 

0  DEAR,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my 
path. 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears ! 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  Memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blythe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 
Sweet  time,  sad  time! — twa  bairns 
at  schule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink. 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear; 
And  tones,   and  looks,  and  smiles 
were  shed. 

Remembered  evermair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 
When  sitting  on  that  bink, 

Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in 
loof, 
Wliat  our  wee  heads  could  think! 
When  baith  bent  down  ower  ae  braid 
page 
Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee. 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame. 
Whene'er  the  schule-weans  laughin' 
said. 

We  cleek'd  thegither  hame? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays 

(The  schule  then  skail't  at  noon), 
Wlien  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

Oh,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dhisome  toun. 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  water  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our 
heads. 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wud 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet. 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wud, 
The  burn  sung  to  the  trees. 

And  we,  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 
Concerted  harmonies ; 


SONGS. 


43'9 


And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  dee. 
Did    I    but    ken   your    heart    still 
dreamed 

O'  bygane  days  and  me ! 

WiLLiAJsi  Motherwell. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  for- 
got, 
And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne ! 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu't  the  go  wans  fine; 
But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary 
foot, 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne ! 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine ; 
But    seas    between   us    braid    hae 
roared, 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet. 
For  auld  lang  syne ! 

And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine; 
And  we'll  take  a  right  guid  willie- 
waught. 
For  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syue ! 


And  surely  ye' 11  be  your  pint-stoup. 

As  sure  as  I'll  be  mine ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 
For^uld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne ! 

BUBNS. 


COME  AWAY,   COME  AWAY, 
DEATH. 


Come  away,  come  away,  death, 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with 

O  prepare  it ! 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 


Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 

On  my  black  cofiin    let    there    be 

strewn ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corse,  where  my  bones  shall 

be  thrown. 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there ! 

Shakspeake. 


BLOW,  BLOW.  THOU  WINTER 
WIND. 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind. 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen. 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho !  sing,  heigh-ho !  unto  the 

green  holly  : 
Most  friendship    is    feigning,   most 
loving  mere  folly : 
Then,  heigh-ho !  the  holly ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 


440 


PARNASSUS. 


Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp. 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh-ho!  sing,  heigh-ho!  unto  the 

green  holly : 
Most  friendship  is    feigning,    most 
loving  mere  folly : 
Then,  heigh-ho !  the  holly ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Shakspeaee. 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD- 
TREE. 


Under  the  greenwood-tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  .with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come    hither,    come    hither,    come 
hither: 

Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

II. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun. 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats. 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come    hither,    come    hither,   come 
hither : 

Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Shakspeare. 


SONG. 

I. 

When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue. 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white. 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue, 
Do  paint  the  meadows  with  de- 
light. 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree. 
Mocks  married  men ;  for  thus  sings 
he, 

Cuckoo ; 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  —  O  word  of  fear  I 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  earl 


When     shepherds    pipe    on    oaten 
straws, 
And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's 
clocks, 
When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and 
daws, 
And  maidens  bleach  their  summer 
smocks. 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men ;  for  thus  sings 
he, 

Cuckoo ; 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  —  O  word  of  fear  I 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear ! 

III. 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 
And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his 
nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in 
pail, 
When  blood  is  nipped,  and  ways  be 

foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who ; 
To-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

rv. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 
And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's 
saw. 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow. 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and 
raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who ; 
To-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 
Shakspeare. 


ARIEL'S  SONG. 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer,  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now. 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the 
bough. 

Shakspeare. 


SONGS. 


441 


TELL  ME  WHERE  IS  FANCY 
BRED. 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ? 
How  begot,  how  nourished? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes. 
With  gazing  fed ;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 
Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell: 
I'll  begin  it, — Ding-dong,  bell, 
Chorus. — Ding-dong,  bell. 

Shakspeabe. 


FULL  FATHOM  FIVE  THY 
FATHER  LIES. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes ; 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  sing  his  knell : 
Hark !    now  I  hear  them,  —  Ding- 
dong,  bell. 
Burden.  —  Ding-dong. 

Shakspeare. 

SONG  OF   ECHO. 

Slow,  slow,  fresh  fount,  keep  time 

with  my  salt  tears ; 
Yet    slower,   yet,   O   faintly  gentle 

springs : 
List  to  the  heavy  part  the  music  bears. 
Woe  weeps  out  her  division,  when 
she  sings. 
Droop  herbs  and  flowers ; 
Fall  grief  in  showers ; 
Our  beauties  are  not  ours : 
O,  I  could  still. 
Like  melting  snow  upon  some  crag- 
gy hill, 
Drop,  drop,  drop,  drop 
Since  Nature's  pride  is  now  a  with- 
ered daffodil. 

Ben  Jonson. 

SONG. 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph  that 
liv'st  unseen 
Within  thy  airy  shell. 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green, 


And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale, 
Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourn- 

eth  well ; 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle 
pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are  ? 
O,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where. 
Sweet  queen  of  parley,  daughter  of 

the  sphere ! 
So  mayst  thou  be  translated  to 
the  skies. 
And  give  resounding  grace    to  all 
heaven's  harmonies. 

Milton. 


HARK!  HARK!  THE  LARK. 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's 
gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 

And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin, 
My  lady  sweet,  arise ; 
Arise,  arise. 

Shakspeake. 


THE  BUGLE-SONG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the 

lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in 

glory. 

Blow,    bugle,   blow,    set    the    wild 

echoes  flying. 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying, 
dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And    thinner,    clearer,    farther 

going ! 

O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The    horns    of   Elfland    faintly 

blowing ! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens 

replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying, 
dying,  dying. 


442 


PARNASSUS. 


O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,   bugle,    blow,    set    the    wild 

echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying, 
dying,  dying. 

Tennyson^. 


COUNTY  GUT. 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea. 
The    orange-flower    perfumes     the 
bower. 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  trilled  all  day. 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the 
hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the 
shade 
Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear ; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high. 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier ; 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 
Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky. 
And  high    and    low  the    influence 
know,  — 
But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

Scott. 


RIVER  SONG. 

Come  to  the  river's  reedy  shore, 

My  maiden,  while  the  skies. 

With  blushes  fit  to  grace  thy  cheek. 

Wait  for  the  sun's  uprise: 

There,  dancing  on  the  rippling  wave, 

My  boat  expectant  lies, 

And  jealous  flowers,  as  thou  goest  by. 

Unclose  their  dewy  eyes. 

As  slowly  down  the  stream  we  glide. 

The  lilies  all  unfold 

Their  leaves,  less  rosy  white  than 

thou. 
And  virgin  hearts  of  gold ; 
The  gay  birds  on  the  meadow  elm 
Salute  thee  blithe  and  bold. 
While  I  sit  shy  and  silent  here, 
And  glow  with  love  untold. 

F.  B.  Sanbobn. 


SONG  FROM  JASON. 

I  KNOW  a  little  garden  close 
Set  thick  with  lily  and  red  rose, 
Where  I  would  wander  if  I  might 
From  dewy  dawn  to  dewy  night. 
And  have  one  with  me  wandering. 

And  though  within  it  no  birds  sing. 
And  though  no  pillared  house  is  there. 
And  though  the  apple-boughs  are  bare 
Of  fruit  and  blossom,  would  to  God 
Her  feet  upon  the  green  grass  trod. 
And  I  beheld  them  as  before. 

There  comes  a  murmur  from  the 
shore, 
And  in  the  place  two  fair  streams  are. 
Drawn  from  the  purple  hills  afar. 
Drawn  down  unto  the  restless  sea ; 
The  hills  whose  flowers  ne'er  fed  the 

bee. 
The  shore  no  ship  has  ever  seen. 
Still  beaten  by  the  billows  green. 
Whose  murmur  comes  unceasingly 
Unto  the  place  for  which  I  cry. 

For  which  I  cry  both  day  and  night, 
For  which  I  let  slip  all  delight, 
That  maketh  me  both  deaf  and  blind. 
Careless  to  win,  unskilled  to  find, 
And  quick  to  lose  what  all  men  seek. 

Yet  tottering  as  I  am  and  weak. 
Still  have  I  left  a  little  breath 
To  seek  within  the  jaws  of  death 
An  entrance  to  that  happy  place. 
To  seek  the  unforgotten  face 
Once    seen,  once   kissed,    once  reft 

from  me 
Anigh  the  murmuring  of  the  sea. 

William  Mobbis. 


OF  A'   THE  AIRTS. 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  west; 
For  there  the  boimie  lassie  lives. 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best. 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers 
row, 

Wi'  mony  a  hill  between ; 
Baith  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers 

Sae  lovely  fresh  and  fair, 
I  hear  her  voice  in  ilka  bird 

Wi'  music  charm  the  air: 


SONGS. 


443 


There's   not  a  bonnie  flower  that 
springs 
By  fountain  shaw  or  green ; 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings 
But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

Burns. 


GOLDILOCKS. 

Goldilocks  sat  on  the  grass, 

Tying  up  of  posies  rare : 
Hardly  could  a  sunbeam  pass 

Through  the  cloud  that  was   her 
hair. 
Purple  orchis  lasteth  long, 

Primrose    flowers     are    pale    and 
clear; 
O  the  maiden  sang  a  song 

It  would  do  you  good  to  hear ! 

Sad  before  her  leaned  the  boy, 

''  Goldilocks  that  I  love  well, 
Happy  creature  fair  and  coy, 

Think  o'  me,  sweet  Amabel." 
Goldilocks  she  shook  apart, 

Looked  with  doubtful,    doubtful 
eyes  : 
Like  a  blossom  in  her  heart. 

Opened  out  her  first  surprise. 

As  a  gloriole  sign  o'  grace, 

Goldilocks,  ah  fall  and  flow, 
On  the  blooming,  childlike  face, 

Dimple,  dimple,  come  and  go. 
Give  her  time :  on  grass  and  sky 

Let  her  gaze  if  she  be  fain. 
As  they  looked  ere  he  drew  nigh, 

They  will  never  look  again. 

Ah !  the  playtime  she  has  known, 

Wliile  her  goldilocks  grew  long, 
Is  it  like  a  nestling  flown. 

Childhood  over  like  a  song? 
Yes,  the  boy  may  clear  his  brow, 

Though  siie  thinks  to  say  him  nay, 
Wlien  she  sighs,  "  I  cannot  now. 

Come  again  some  other  day." 

Jean  Ingelow. 


O  MY    LUVE'S    LIKE    A   RED, 
RED  ROSE. 

O  MY  hive's  like  a  red,  red  rose. 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June: 

O  my  hive's  like  the  melodie, 
That's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 


As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I  : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun : 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve  I 
And  fare  thee  weel  awhile ! 

And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve. 
Though  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

BUBNS. 


GO,  LOVELY  ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  rose ! 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and 
me, 
That  now  she  knows, 
^Vlien  I  resemble  her  to  thee. 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to 
be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 
And   shuns   to   have    her   graces 
spied. 
That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide. 
Thou   must   have  uncommended 
died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired : 

Bid  her  come  forth. 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired. 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die !  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 
May  read  in  thee,  — 
How  small   a  part  of  time  they 

share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and 
fair. 

Walleb. 


TO  THE  ROSE. 

GoE,  happy  Rose,  and  interwove 
With  other  flowers,  bind  my  love. 
Tell  her,  too,  she  must  not  be, 
Longer  flowing,  longer  free, 
That  so  oft  has  fettered  me. 


444 


PARNASSUS. 


Say,  if  she's  fretful,  I  have  bands 
Of  pearl  and  gold,  to  bind  her  hands ; 
Tell  her,  if  she  struggle  still, 
I  have  myrtle  rods  at  will, 
For  to  tame,  though  not  to  kill. 

Take  thou  my  blessing  thus,  and  goe 
And  tell  her  this,  but  doe  not  so, 
Lest  a  handsome  anger  flye 
Like  a  lightning  from  her  eye. 
And  burn  thee  up,  as  well  as  I. 
Heekick. 


TAKE,  O,   TAKE    THOSE    LIPS 
AWAY. 

Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away. 

That  so  sweetly  were  foresworn ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day. 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn ; 
But  my  kisses  bring  again,  —  bring 

again, 
Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain,  — 
sealed  in  vain. 

Shakspeabe. 


GAKDEN  SONG. 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted 
abroad. 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

II. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that 
she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky. 
To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she 
loves. 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

ni. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 
The  flute,  violin,  bassoon ; 

All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine 
stirred 
To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune ; 


Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking 
bird, 
And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

IV. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers    leave    her 
alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are 
gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

V. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night 
goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are 
those. 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to 
the  rose, 
"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

VI. 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into 
my  blood, 
As  the  music  clashed  in  the  hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood. 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and 
on  to  the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

VII. 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have 
left  so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we 
meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the 

lake 

As  the   pimpernel  dozed  on  the 

lea; 


SONGS. 


445 


But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for 
your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

IX. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden 
of  girls. 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of 
pearls. 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 
Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over 
with  curls. 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 
From    the    passion-flower  at  the 
gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 
She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near, 
she  is  near;" 
And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She 
is  late; " 
The    larkspur  listens,    "  I    hear,  I 
hear," 
And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 


She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her 
feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

Tennyson. 


TO  ALTHEA. 

When  Love  with  un  confined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye. 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 


When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Ourcarelessheads  with  roses  crowned, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  linnet-like  confined,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be. 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage: 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free. 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above. 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Lovelace. 


TO   CELIA. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup. 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  my  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath. 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee. 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  would  not  withered  be ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe. 

And  sent  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  then  itgrowsand  smells,  Iswear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee, 

Ben  Jonson. 


THE  NIGHT  PIECE:  TO  JULIA. 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  e  lend  thee. 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee ; 

And  the  elves  also. 

Whose  little  eyes  glow. 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 


446 


PARNASSUS. 


No  Will-o'-th'-Wispe  mislight  thee, 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worme  bite  thee ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way. 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there's  none  to  affright 
thee. 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber. 
What  though  the  moon  do  slumber  ? 
The  starres  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  cleare,  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  wooe  thee. 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me ; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet. 
My  soule  I'll  poure  into  thee. 

Herbick. 


DISDAIN  RETURNED. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek. 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires. 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay. 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind. 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires. 

Hearts,  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires. 

Where  these  are  not^  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks,  or  lips,  or  eyes. 

Thomas  Carew. 


LOVE. 

Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes. 

All  remedies  refusing; 
A  plant  that  most  with  cutting  grows. 
Most  barren  with  best  using. 

Why  so? 
More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies, 
If  not  enjoyed,  it  sighing  cries 

Heigh-ho ! 

Love  is  a  torment  of  the  mind, 

A  tempest  everlasting ; 
And  Jove  hath  made  it  of  a  kind 
Not  well,  nor  full,  nor  fasting. 
Why  so  ? 
More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies ; 
If  not  enjoyed,  it  sighing  cries 

ileigh-ho ! 
Samuel  Daniel. 


THE  MANLY  HEART. 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair? 
Or  my  cheeks  make  pale  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day. 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May  — 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me. 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 

Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind ; 
Or  a  well  disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature  ? 
Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican. 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me,  — 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be  ? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  lier  love  ? 
Or  her  merit's  value  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her  name  of  Best ; 
If  she  seem  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high. 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 
Think  what  with  them  they  would 

do 
Who  without  them  dare  to  woo ; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  though  great  she  be  ? 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
ViThat  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 

G.  Wither. 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

O,  THE  days  are  gone,  when  Beauty 
bright 
My  heart's  chain  wove; 
When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn 
till  night. 
Was  love,  still  love. 


SONGS. 


447 


New  hope  may  bloom, 
And  days  may  come, 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam ; 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in 
life 
As  love's  young  dream. 

Moore. 

THEKLA'S   SONG. 

The  clouds  are  flying,  the  woods  are 
sighing, 
A  maiden  is  walking  the  grassy 
shore. 
And  as  the  wave  breaks  with  might, 
with  might. 
She  singeth  aloud  in  the  darksome 
night, 
But  a  tear  is  in  her  troubled  eye. 

For  the  world  feels  cold,   and  the 
heart  gets  old, 
And  reflects  the  bright  aspect  of 
Nature  no  more ; 
Then  take  back  thy  child,  holy  Vir- 
gin, to  thee ! 
I  have  plucked  the  one  blossom 
that  hangs  on  earth's  tree, 
I  have  lived,   and  have  loved, 
and  die. 

Anonymous. 
Translated  from  Schiller. 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  ANDALLA. 

"Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the 
golden  cushion  down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and 
gaze  with  all  the  town ! 

From  gay  guitar  and  violin  the  silver 
notes  are  flowing. 

And  the  lovely  lute  doth  speak  be- 
tween the  trumpet's  lordly 
blowing. 

And  banners  bright  from  lattice  light 
are  waving  everywhere, 

And  the  tall,  tall  plume  of  our  cou- 
sin's bridegroom  floats  proudly 
in  the  air. 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the 
golden  cushion  down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and 
gaze  with  all  the  town ! 

"Arise,  arise,  Xarifa!  I  see  Andal- 

la's  face  — 
He  bends  him  to  the  people  with  a 

calm  and  princely  grace ; 


Through  all  the  land  of  Xeres  and 

banks  of  Guadalquiver 
Rode  forth  bridegroom  so  brave  as 

he,  so  brave  and  lovely  never. 
Yon  tall  plume  waving  o'er  his  brow, 

of  purple  mixed  with  white, 
I    guess    'twas   wreathed    by  Zara, 

whom  he  will  wed  to-night. 
Rise  up,   rise  up,   Xarifa!   lay  the 

golden  cushion  down ; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and 

gaze  with  all  the  town ! " 

The  Zegri  lady  rose  not,  nor  laid  her 

cushion  down. 
Nor  came  she  to  the  window  to  gaze 

with  all  the  town ; 
But  though  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her 

knee,  in  vain  her  fingers  strove, 
And  though  her  needle  pressed  the 

silk,  no  flower  Xarifa  wove; 
One  bonny  rose-bud  slie  had  traced 

before  the  noise  drew  nigh  — 
That  bonny  bud  a  tear  effaced,  slow 

drooping  from  her  eye  — 
"  No,  no ! "  she  sighs  —  "  bid  me  not 

rise,  nor  lay  my  cushion  down. 
To  gaze  upon  Andalla  with  all  the 

gazing  town!" 

"  Why  rise  ye  not,  Xarifa  —  nor  lay 

your  cushion  down  — 
Why  gaze  ye  not,  Xarifa —  with  all 

the  gazing  town? 
Hear,  hear  the  trumpet  how  it  swells, 

and  how  the  people  cry : 
He  stops  at  Zara's  palace-gate — why 

sit  ye  still,  oh,  why!" 
—  "At    Zara's    gate     stops    Zara's 

mate ;  in  him  shall  I  discover 
The  dark-eyed  youth  pledged  me  his 

truth  with  tears,  and  was  my 

lover ! 
I  will  not  rise,  with  weary  eyes,  nor 

lay  my  cushion  down. 
To  gaze  on  false  Andalla  with  all  the 

gazing  town! " 

LOCKHART. 


THE  BANKS  OF  BOON. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and 
fair. 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  weary,  f u'  o'  care ! 


448 


PARNASSUS. 


Thou' It  break  my  heart,  thou  war- 
bling bird, 
That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering 
thorn : 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys, 
Departed  —  never  to  return. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To    see    the   rose    and  woodbine 
twine ; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree ; 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But,  ah !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

BUKNS. 


A  WEARY  LOT  IS  THINE. 

A  WEARY  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine ; 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid. 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine. 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green,  — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew,  my  love ; 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 

The  rose  is  budding  fain ; 
But  it  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 

Ere  we  two  meet  again. 
He  turned  his  charger  as  he  spake 

Upon  the  river  shore ; 
He  gave  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

Said,  Adieu  f orevermore,  my  love ; 
And  adieu  forevermore. 

Scott. 


THE  NIGHT-SEA. 

Xx  the  summer  even, 
While  yet  the  dew  was  hoar, 
I  went  plucking  purple  pansies. 
Till  my  love  should  come  to  shore. 

The  fishing  lights  their  dances 
Were  keeping  out  at  sea, 
And  "Come,"  I  sung,  "  my  true  love. 
Come  hasten  home  to  me." 

But  the  sea  it  fell  a-moaning, 

And  the  white  gulls  rocked  thereon, 


And  the  young  moon  dropped  from 

heaven. 
And  the  lights  hid  one  by  one. 

All  silently  their  glances 

Slipped  down  the  cruel  sea. 

And   "Wait,"   cried  the  night,  and 

wind,  and  storm, 
"  Wait  till  I  come  to  thee ! " 

Haekiet  Pbescott  Spoffobd. 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 

Oh  !  go  not  yet  my  love. 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast ; 

The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven 

above, 
And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 
Oh !  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again, 
Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last. 
Oh  kiss  me  ere  we  part : 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart, 
My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than  the 

bosom  of  the  main. 

Thy  heart  beats   through  thy  rosy 
limbs. 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir; 

Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims, 

I  have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleasant 
myrrh ; 

Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm ; 

Thou  shalt  not  wander   hence  to- 
night, 

I'll  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 

To-night  the  roaring  brine 

Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses ; 

The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 

Will  be  both  blue  and  calm ; 

And  the  billow  will   embrace  thee 
with  a  kiss  as  soft  as  mine. 

No  western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea, 

And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander, 

My  soul  must  follow  thee ! 

Oh !  go  not  yet,  my  love. 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low ; 

The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 

Those  marble  steps  below. 

The  turret  stairs  are  wet 

That  lead  into  the  sea. 

The  pleasant  stars  have  set : 

Oh !  go  not,  go  not  yet, 

Or  I  will  follow  thee. 

Tennyson. 


SONGS. 


449 


BKIGNALL  BANKS. 

O,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and 
fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton  Hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily,  — 
*'0,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and 
fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen."  — 

"  If,   Maiden,   thou  wouldst    wend 
with  me. 
To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead 
we. 
That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou 
speed. 
As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May."  — 
Yet  sung  she,  "Brignall  banks  are 
fair. 
And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 
Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

"  I  read  you,  by  your  bugle-hom, 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  Ranger  sworn. 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood." 
"A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night."  — 
Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are 
fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay ; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there. 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May ! 

"  With  burnished  brand  and  muske- 
toon, 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum."  — 
"  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 
29 


"  And,  O !  though  Brignall  banks  be 
fair. 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay. 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare, 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May ! 

"  Maiden !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die; 
The  fiend,  whose  lantern  lights  the 
mead. 
Were  better  mate  than  I ! 
And   when  I'm  with  my  comrades 
met. 
Beneath  the  greenwood  bough. 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 
"  Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and 
fair. 
And  Greta  woods  are  green. 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen." 
Scott. 


BONNY  DUNDEE. 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas 

Claver'se  who  spoke, 
"Ere  the  King's   crown   shall  fall 
there  are  crowns  to  be  broke ; 
So  let  each  Cavalier  who  loves  honor 

and  me 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill 

up  my  can. 
Come  saddle  your  horses,   and 

call  up  your  men ; 
Come  open  the  West  Port,  and 

let  me  gang  free. 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
Bonny  Dundee. 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up 

the  street. 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the 

drums  they  are  beat ; 
But  the  Provost,  douce  man,  said, 

"  Just  e'en  let  him  be, 
The  gude  town  is  weel  quit  of  that 

Deil  of  Dundee." 

With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grass- 
market  was  crammed, 

As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to 
be  hanged : 


450 


PARNASSUS. 


There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there 

was  fear  in  each  ee, 
As  they  watched  for  the  bonnets  of 

Bonny  Dundee. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits 
and  had  spears, 

And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  Cava- 
liers ; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and 
the  causeway  was  free. 

At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 

"Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to 

the  rocks,  — 
Ere  I  own  an  usurper,  I'll  couch 

with  the  fox ; 
And  tremble   false  Whigs,   in    the 

midst  of  your  glee. 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my 

bonnet  and  me." 

Scott. 

SONG  OF  CLAN-ALPINE. 

Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph 
advances ' 
Honored  and  blessed  be  the  ever- 
green Pine ! 
Long  may  the  tree,  in  his  banner 
that  glances. 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of 
our  line ! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gayly  to    bourgeon,  and  broadly 
to  grow. 
While  every  Highland  glen 
Sends  our  shout  back  again, 
"  Roderigh  Vich    Alpine  dhu,  ho ! 
ieroe!" 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by 
the  fountain. 
Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to 
fade; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripped 
every  leaf  on  the  mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan-Alpine  exult 
in  her  shade. 
Moored  in  the  rifted  rock, 
Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock, 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it 
blow: 
Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 
Echo  his  praise  again, 
"Roderigh  Vich  Alpine   dhu,  ho! 
ieroe!" 


Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in 
Glen  Fruin, 
And  Bannachars'  groans  to    our 
slogan  replied ; 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross  dhu,  they  are 
smoking  in  ruin, 
And  the  best  of  Loch-Lomond  lie 
dead  on  her  side. 
Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 
Think   of    Clan-Alpine  with  feai 
and  with  woe ; 
Lennox  and  Leven-glen 
Shake  when  they  hear  again, 
"Roderigh    Yich   Alpine  dhu,  ho! 
ieroe ! " 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of 
the  Highlands ! 
Stretch  to  your  oars  for  the  ever- 
green Pine ! 
O  that  the  rosebud  that  graces  yon 
islands 
Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around 
him  to  twine ! 
O  that  some  seedling  gem. 
Worthy  such  noble  stem. 
Honored  and  blessed  in  their  shadow 
might  grow ! 
Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 
Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
"Roderigh  Yich    Alpine    dhu,  ho! 
ieroe!" 

Scott. 


PIBROCH  OF  DONUIL  DHU. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away. 

Hark  to  the  summons ! 
Come  in  your  war  array. 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky, 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plAid, 

And  true  heart  that  wears  one ; 
Come  every  steel  blade, 

And  strong  hand  that  bears  one ! 

Leave  untended  the  herd. 
The  flock  without  shelter; 


SONGS. 


451 


Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come 

When  forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come 

When  navies  are  stranded : 
Faster  come,  faster  come. 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come ; 

See  how  they  gather ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  JDonuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset  1 

Scott. 


THE  DYING  BARD. 


DiNAS  Emlinn,  lament ;  for  the  mo- 
ment is  nigh, 

When  mute  in  the  woodlands  thine 
echoes  shall  die : 

No  more  by  sweet  Teivi  Cadwallon 
shall  rave. 

And  mix  his  wild  notes  with  the 
wild  dashing  wave. 

II. 

In  spring  and  in  autumn  thy  glories 

of  shade 
Unhonored  shall  flourish,  unhonored 

shall  fade : 


For  soon  shall  be  lifeless  the  eye  and 

the  tongue, 
That  viewed  them  with  rapture,  with 

rapture  that  sung. 

III. 

Thy  sons,  Dinas  Emlinn,  may  march 

in  their  pride, 
And  chase  the   proud  Saxon  from 

Prestatyn's  side; 
But  where  is  the  harp  shall  give  life 

to  their  name  ? 
And  where  is  the  bard  shall  give 

heroes  their  fame  ? 

IV.    • 

And  oh,  Dinas  Emlinn !  thy  daugh- 
ters so  fair. 

Who  heave  the  white  bosom,  and 
wave  the  dark  hair ; 

What  tuneful  enthusiast  shall  wor- 
ship their  eye. 

When  half  of  their  charms  with 
Cadwallon  shall  die  ? 

V. 

Then  adieu,  silver  Teivi !  I  quit  thy 
loved  scene, 

To  join  the  dim  choir  of  the  bards 
who  have  been ; 

With  Lewarch,  and  Meilor,  and  Mer- 
lin the  Old, 

And  sage  Taliessin,  high  harping  to 
hold. 

VI. 

And  adieu,  Dinas  Emlinn !  still  green 

be  thy  shades, 
Unconquered     thy    warriors,     and 

matchless  thy  maids ! 
And  thou,  whose  faint  warblings  my 

weakness  can  tell. 
Farewell,  my  loved  Harp!  my  last 

treasure,  farewell ! 

Scott. 


IX. 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC 
POEMS. 


"For  when  sad  thoughts  possess  the  mind  of  man, 
There  is  a  plummet  in  the  heart  that  weighs 
And  pulls  ua  living  to  the  dust  we  came  from."— Beaumont  and  PletchkBi 


DIEGES  AJ^B  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


LACHRIM^;     OR,    MIRTH 
TURNED  TO  MOURNING. 

Call,  me  no  more, 

As  heretofore, 
The  music  of  a  feast ; 

Since  now,  alas. 

The  mirth  that  was 
In  me,  is  dead  or  ceast. 

Before  I  went 

To  banishment 
Into  the  loathed  west, 

I  could  rehearse 

A  lyric  verse. 
And  speak  it  with  the  best. 

But  time,  ay  me ! 

Has  laid,  I  see, 
My  organ  fast  asleep ; 

And  turned  my  voice 

Into  the  noise 
Of  those  that  sit  and  weep. 

Herrick. 


THE  NYMPH  MOURNING  HER 
FAWN. 

The  wanton  troopers,  riding  by, 
Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 
Ungentle  men !  they  cannot  thrive 
Who  killed  thee.    Thou  ne'er  didst 

alive 
Them  any  harm,  alas !  nor  could 
Thy  death  yet  do  them  any  good. 
I'm  sure  I  never  wished  them  ill ; 
Nor  do  I  for  all  this,  nor  will : 
But,  if  my  simple  prayers  may  yet 
Prevail  with  Heaven  to  forget 
Thy  murder,  I  will  join  my  tears, 
Rather  than  fail.     But,  O  my  fears ! 
It  cannot  die  so.     Heaven's  King 
Keeps  register  of  every  thing, 


And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain ; 
Even  beasts  must  be  with  justice  slain, 
Else  men  are  made  their  deodands. 
Though   they    should    wash    their 

guilty  hands 
In  this  warm  life-blood  which  doth 

part 
From  thine,  and  wound  me  to  the 

heart. 
Yet  could  they  not  be  clean,  their 

stain 
Is  dyed  in  such  a  purple  grain. 
There  is  not  such  another  in 
The  world,  to  offer  for  their  sin. 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
'Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet; 
With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race ; 
And,  when  it  had  left  me  far  away, 
'T would  stay  and  run    again   and 

stay ; 
For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds, 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own. 
But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 
And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a  little  wilderness, 
And  all  the  spring  time  of  the  year 
It  only  lov^d  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 

Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should 

lie, 
Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise. 
Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes ; 
For,  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade. 
It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 
Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed. 
Until  its  lips  e'en  seemed  to  bleed, 
And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip. 
And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 
But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 
On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill, 
455 


456 


PABNASSUS. 


And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 
In  wliitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold : 
Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
Lilies  without,  roses  within. 

Maevell. 


THE  LABORER. 

Toiling  in  the  naked  fields, 
Wliere  no  bush  a  shelter  yields, 
Needy  Labor  dithering  stands, 
Beats  and  blows  his  numbing  hands, 
And  upon  the  crumping  snows 
Stamps  in  vain  to  warm  his  toes. 

Though  all's  in  vain  to  keep  him 

warm. 
Poverty  must  brave  the  storm, 
Friendship  none  its  aid  to  lend,  — 
Constant  health  his  only  friend. 
Granting  leave  to  live  in  pain. 
Giving  strength  to  toil  in  vain. 

John  Clare. 


LAMENT  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF 
SCOTS,  ON  THE  APPROACH 
OF  SPRING. 

Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 

On  every  blooming  tree. 
And  spreads  her  sheets  o'   daisies 
white 

Out  owre  the  grassy  lea: 
Now   Phoebus   cheers    the    crystal 
streams, 

And  glads  the  azure  skies ; 
But  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 

That  fast  in  durance  lies. 

Now  laverocks  wake  the  merry  morn, 

Aloft  on  dewy  wing ; 
The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bower. 

Makes  woodland  echoes  ring ; 
The  mavis  mild,  wi'  many  a  note. 

Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest : 
In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 

Wi'  care  nor  thrall  opprest. 

Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  bank. 

The  primrose  down  the  brae ; 
The  hawthorn's  budding  in  the  glen. 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae : 
The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotland 

May  rove  their  sweets  amang  : 
But  I,  the  Queen  of  a'  Scotland, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  Strang. 


I  was  the  Queen  o'  bonnie  France, 

Where  happy  I  hae  been, 
Fu'  lightly  rase  I  in  the  morn. 

As  blythe  lay  down  at  e'en: 
And  I'm  the  sov' reign  of  Scotland, 

And  mony  a  traitor  there ; 
Yet  here  I  lie  in  foreign  bands. 

And  never  ending  care. 

But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman, 

My  sister  and  my  fae. 
Grim  vengeance  yet   shall  whet   a 
sword 

That  through  thy  soul  shall  gae : 
The  weeping  blood  in  woman's  breast 

Was  never  known  to  thee ; 
Nor  the  balm  that  draps  on  wounds 
of  woe 

Frae  woman's  pitying  e'e. 

My  son !  my  son !  may  kinder  stars 

Upon  thy  fortune  shine ; 
And  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy 
reign. 

That  ne'er  wad  blink  on  mine ! 
God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother's  faes. 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee ; 
And  where  thou  meet'st  thy  moth- 
er's friend. 

Remember  him  for  me ! 

Oh !  soon,  to  me,  may  summer  suns 

Nae  mair  light  up  the  morn ! 
Nae  mair,  to  me,  the  autumn  winds 

Wave  o'er  the  yellow  corn ! 
And  in  the  narrow  house  o'  death 

Let  winter  round  me  rave ; 
And  the  next  flowers  that  deck  the 
spring, 

Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave ! 

Burns. 


THE  BRAES  OF  YARROW. 

Thy    braes    were    bonnie.   Yarrow 
stream. 
When  first  on  them  I  met  my  lover; 
Thy    braes    how    dreary,     Yarrow 
stream. 
When   now  thy  waves  his  body 
cover ! 
Forever,  now,  O  Yarrow  stream  1 
Thou    art    to   me    a    stream    of 
sorrow ; 
For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  I 
Behold    my    love,  the    flower    of 
Yarrow  I 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


457 


He  promised  me  a  milk-white  steed, 

To  bear  me  to  his  father's  bowers ; 
He  promised  me  a  little  page, 

To  squire  me  to  his  father's  towers ; 
He  promised  me  a  wedding-ring  — 

The    wedding-day  was  fixed    to- 
morrow : 
Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 

Alas,  his  watery  grave  in  Yarrow ! 

His  mother  from  the  window  looked. 
With  all  the  longing  of  a  mother; 
His  little  sister  weeping  walked 
The  greenwood  path  to  meet  her 
brother : 
They  sought  him  east,  they  sought 
him  west. 
They  sought  him  all    the  forest 
thorough ; 
They  only  saw  the  cloud  of  night. 
They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow. 

No  longer  from  the  window  look ; 
Thou  hast  no  son,   thou    tender 
mother ! 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid ; 

Alas !  thou  hast  no  more  a  brother ! 
No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west. 
No  longer  search  the  forest  thor- 
ough; 
For  wandering  in  the  night  so  dark. 
He  fell  a  lifeless  corse  in  Yarrow. 
John  Logan. 


THE  MURDERED  TRAVELLER. 

When  spring,  to  woods  and  wastes 
around. 
Brought  bloom  and  joy  again. 
The  murdered  traveller's  bones  were 
found. 
Far  down  a  narrow  glen. 

The  fragrant  birch  above  him  hung 

Her  tassels  in  the  sky ; 
And  many  a  vernal  blossom  sprung, 

And  nodded  careless  by. 

The  red-bird  warbled  as  he  wrought 
His  hanging  nest  o'erhead. 

And  fearless,  near  the  fatal  spot, 
Her  young  the  partridge  led. 

But  there  was  weeping  far  away ; 

And  gentle  eyes,  for  him, 
With  watching  many  an  ahxious  day, 

Were  sorrowful  and  dim. 


They  little  knew,  who    loved   him 
so. 

The  fearful  death  he  met, 
When  shouting  o'er  the  desert  snow, 

Unarmed,  and  hard  beset ; 

Nor  how,  when   round    the    frosty 
pole 
The  northern  dawn  was  red. 
The    mountain    wolf    and    wildcat 
stole 
To  banquet  on  the  dead ; 

Nor  how,  when  strangers  found  his 
bones. 
They  dressed  the  hasty  bier, 
And  marked  his  grave  with  nameless 
stones, 
Unmoistened  by  a  tear. 

But  long  they  looked,   and  feared, 
and  wept. 
Within  his  distant  home ; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they 
slept, 
For  joy  that  he  was  come. 

So    long    they  looked;    but   never 
spied 
His  welcome  step  again. 
Nor  knew  the  fearful  death  he  died 
Far  down  that  narrow  glen. 

Bbyant. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 

Life  and  thought  have  gone  away 

Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide : 
Careless  tenants  they ! 

All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 
Or  through   the    windows    we 

shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 

Come  away :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here,  or  merry-making  sound. 

The    house    was    builded    of    the 
earth. 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 


458 


PARNASSUS. 


Come  away :  for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell ; 
But  in  a  city  glorious, 
A  great  and  distant  city,  have  bought 

A  mansion  incorruptible. 
Would  they  could  have  staid  with 
us! 

Tennyson. 


LAMENT  FOR  JAMES,  EARL  OF 
GLENCAIRN. 

Ye    scattered     birds    that    faintly 
sing. 
The  reliques  of  the  vernal  choir ! 
Ye  woods  that  shed  on  a'  the  winds 

The  honors  of  the  aged  year ! 
A  few  short  months,  and  glad  and 
gay, 
Again  ye' 11  charm    the    ear  and 
e'e; 
But  nocht  in  all  revolving  time 
Can  gladness  bring  again  to  me. 

The    bridegroom    may   forget    the 
bride 
Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yes- 
treen ; 
The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 
That  on  his   head   an  hour  has 
been ; 
The  mother  may  forget  the  child 
That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her 
knee: 
But  I'll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 
And  a'  that  thou  hast  done  for  me ! 

BUKNS. 


HE'S  GANE. 


HE'sgane!  he's  ganel  he's  frae  us 

torn, 
The  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  bom  I 
Thee,  Matthew,  nature's  sel'  shall 
mourn 

By  wood  and  wild. 
Where,  haply,  pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exiled. 

Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o'  the  starns. 
That    proudly   cock   your   cresting 

cairns ! 
Ye    cliffs,    the    haunts    of   sailing 

yearns, 

Where  Echo  slumbers, 


Come    join,    ye    Nature's    sturdiest 
bairns, 

My  wailing  numbers  I 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens ! 
Ye  haz'lly  shaws  and  briery  dens ! 
Ye  burnies,  whiinplin'   down  your 
glens, 

Wi'  todlin'  din, 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stens, 
Frae  lin  to  lin  I 

Mourn,    little    harebells    owre    the 

lea; 
Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see ; 
Ye  woodbines  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bowers ; 
Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o'  flowers. 

Mourn,    ye    wee    songsters    o'    the 

wood; 
Ye    grouse  that   crap   the  heather 

bud; 
Ye  curlews  calling  through  a  clud ; 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 
And   mourn,   ye  whirring    paitrick 
brood !  — 

He's  gane  forever! 

Go  to  your  sculptured    tombs,  ye 

great. 
In  a'  the  tinsel  trash  o'  state ; 
But  by  thy  honest  turf  I'll  wait. 

Thou  man  of  worth  I 
And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow's  fate 
E'er  lay  in  earth. 

BUJRNS. 


TO  HIS  WINDING-SHEET. 

Come  thou,  who  art  the  wine  and 
wit 

Of  all  I've  writ; 
The  grace,  the  glorie,  and  the  best 

Piece  of  the  rest ; 
Thou  art  of  what  I  did  intend 

The  all,  and  end ; 
And  what  was  made,  was  made  to 
meet 

Thee,  thee,  my  sheet ; 
Come    then,  and  be  to  my  chaste 
side 

Both  bed  and  bride. 
We  two,  as  reliques  left,  will  have 

One  rest,  one  grave ; 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


459 


And,  hugging  close,  we  will  not  feare 
Lust  entering  here ; 
Where  all  desires  are  dead  or  cold, 

As  is  the  mould ; 
And  all  affections  are  forgot. 

Or  trouble  not. 
Here  needs  no  court  for  our  request. 
Where  all  are  best ; 
All  wise,  all  equal,  and  all  just 

Alike  i'  th'  dust. 

Nor  need  we  here  to  feare  the  f rowne 

Of  court  or  crown ; 

Where  fortune  bears  no  sway  o'er 

things, 

There  all  are  kings. 

And  for  a  while  lye  here  concealed, 

To  be  revealed, 

Next,  at  that  great  platonick  yeere, 

And  then  meet  here. 

Hekbick. 


ODE. 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest. 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blessed ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns    to    deck    their   hallowed 

mould. 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray. 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their 

clay; 
And  Freedom,  shall  a  while  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there ! 

Collins. 


DIRGE. 

He  is  gone  —  is  dust. 

He,  the  more  fortunate !  yea  he  hath 
finished ! 

For  him  there  is  no  longer  any  fu- 
ture, 

His  life  is  bright,  —  bright  without 
spot  it  was 

And  cannot  cease  to  be.  No  omi- 
nous hour 

Knocks  at  his  door  with  tidings  of 
mishap. 

Far  off  is  he,  above  desire  and  fear ; 

No  more  submitted  to  the  change 
and  chance 


Of  the  unsteady  planets.    O  'tis  well 
With  Mm !  but  who  knows  what  the 

coming  hour 
Yelled  in  thick  darkness  brings  for 

us! 

That  anguish  will  be  wearied  down, 

I  know ; 
What  pang  is  permanent  with  man  ? 

from  the  highest 
As  from  the  vilest  thing  of  every  day 
He  learns  to  wean  himself ;  for  the 

strong  hours 
Conquer  him.     Yet  I  feel  what  I 

have  lost 
In    him.    The    bloom    is  vanished 

from  my  life. 
For  O !  he  stood  beside  me,  like  my 

youth. 
Transformed  for  me  the  real   to  a 

dream. 
Clothing  the  palpable  and  familiar 
With   golden    exhalations    of    the 

dawn. 
Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  future 

toils, 
The  beautiful  is  vanished  —  and  re- 
turns not. 

Colebidge:  Wallenstein. 


LYKEWAKE  DIRGE. 

This  ae  night,  this  ae  night, 
Every  night  and  alle. 
Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-light, 
And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

When  thou  from  hence   away  art 

past. 
Every  night  and  alle, 
To  Whinny-Muir   thou    comest  at 

laste. 
And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  hosen  and  shoon. 
Every  night  and  alle. 
Sit  thee  down  and  put  them  on, 
And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

If  hosen  and  shoon  thou  never  gav'st 

none. 
Every  night  and  alle. 
The  whinnes  shall  prick  thee  to  the 

bare  bone. 
And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 


460 


PAKNASSUS. 


From    Whinny-Muir     when     thou 

mayest  passe, 
Every  uight  and  alle, 
To  Purgatory  fire  thou  comest  at 

last, 
And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  meat  or  drink, 
Every  night  and  alle, 
The  tire  shall  never  make  thee  shrink. 
And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

If  meat  or  drink  thou  never  gavest 

none, 
Every  night  and  alle. 
The  fire  will  burn  thee  to  the  bare 

bone,. 
And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

This  ae  night,  this  ae  night, 
Every  night  and  alle, 
Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-light. 
And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

Anon. 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

No  abbey's  gloom,  nor  dark  cathedral 
stoops. 
No  winding  torches  paint  the  mid- 
night air ; 
Here  the  green  pines  delight,  the  as- 
pen droops 
Along  the  modest  pathways,  and 
those  fair 
Pale  asters  of  the  season  spread  their 
plumes 
Around  this  field,  fit  garden  for  our 
tombs. 

And  shalt  thou  pause  to  hear  some 
funeral  bell 
Slow  stealing  o'er  thy  heart  in  this 
calm  place. 
Not  with  a  throb  of  pain,  a  feverish 
knell. 
But  in  its  kind  and  supplicating 
grace, 
It  says,  Go,  pilgrim,  on  thy  march, 
be  more 
Friend  to  the  friendless  than  thou 
wast  before ; 

Learn  from  the  loved  one's  rest  se- 
renity ; 
To-morrow  that  soft  bell  for  thee 
shall  sound, 


And  thou  repose  beneath  the  whis- 
pering tree, 
One  tribute  more  to  this  submis- 
sive ground ;  — 
Prison  thy  soul  from  malice,  bar  out 
pride. 
Nor  these  pale  flowers  nor  this  still 
field  deride : 

Rather  to  those    ascents  of    being 
turn, 
Where  a  ne'er-setting  sun  illumes 
the  year 
Eternal,   and  the  incessant  watch- 
fires  burn 
Of  unspent  holiness  and  goodness 
clear,  — 
Forget  man's  littleness,  deserve  the 
.   best, 
God's  mercy  in  thy  thought  and 
life  confest. 

Channing. 


DIRGE  IN  CYMBELINE. 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 
Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall 
bring 
Each    opening    sweet    of    earliest 
bloom. 
And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks    this    quiet 
grove ; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here. 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen ; 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew : 

The    female  fays  shall  haunt    the 

green. 

And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly 

dew! 

The  redbreast  oft,  at  evening  hours. 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid. 
With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flow- 
ers. 
To  deck  the  ground  where  thou 
art  laid. 

When  howling  winds  and  beating  rain 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell, 

Or  'midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain. 
The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall 
dwell ; 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


461 


Each  lovely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 

For  thee"  the  tear  be  duly  shed ; 
Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 
And  mourned  till  Pity's  self  be 
dead. 

Collins. 


DIRGE  FOR  DORCAS. 

Come  pitie  us,  all  ye  who  see 
Our  harps  hung  on  the  willow-tree ; 
Come  pitie  us,  ye  passers-by. 
Who  see  or  hear  poor  widows  crie ; 
Come  pitie  us,  and  bring  your  eares 
And  eyes  to  pitie  widows'  teares. 

And  when  you  are  come  hither, 
Then  we  will  keep 
A  fast,  and  weep 

Our  eyes  out  all  together. 

For  Tabitha,  who  dead  lies  here. 
Clean  washt,  and  laid  out  for  the  bier. 
O  modest  matrons,  weep  and  waile ! 
For  now  the  corne  and  wine  must 

f  aile ; 
The  basket  and  the  bynn  of  bread, 
Wherewith  so  many  soules  were  fed. 
Stand  empty  here  forever ; 
And  ah !  the  poore. 
At  thy  worne  doore, 
Shall  be  relieved  never. 

But  ah,  alas !  the  almond-bough 
And  olive-branch  is  withered  now ; 
The  wine-presse  now  is  ta'en  from 

us. 
The  saffron  and  the  calamus ; 
The  spice  and   spiknard    hence    is 

gone, 
The  storax  and  the  cynamon ; 
The  caroll  of  our  gladnesse 
Has  taken  wing, 
And  our  late  spring 
Of  mirth  is  turned  to  sadnesse. 

How  wise  wast  thou  in  all  thy  waies ! 
How  worthy  of  respect  and  praise ! 
How  matron-like  didst  thou  go  drest ! 
How  soberly  above  the  rest 
Of   those  that  prank  it  with  their 

plumes, 
And    jet  it  with  their  choice    per- 
fumes ! 
Thy  vestures  were  not  flowing ; 
Nor  did  the  street 
Accuse  thy  feet 
Of  mincing  in  their  going. 


Sleep  with  thy  beauties  here,  while  we 
Will  show  these  garments  made  by 

thee; 
These  were  the  coats,  in  these  are  read 
The  monuments  of  Dorcas  dead : 
These  were  thy  acts,  and  thou  shalt 

have 
These  hung,  as  honors  o'er  thy  grave, 
And  after  us,  distressed, 
Should  fame  be  dumb. 
Thy  very  tomb 
Would  cry  out.  Thou  art  blessed. 
Herkick. 


CORONACH. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain. 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  fount,  re-appearing. 

From  the  raindrop  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary ; 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest ; 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray. 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river. 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever ! 

Scott. 


FEAR  NO  MORE  THE  HEAT 
O'  TH'  SUN. 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  tli'  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home    art    gone,   and    ta'en  thy 
wages. 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 


462 


PARNASSUS. 


Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  th'  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke: 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak : 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash. 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash : 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 
Shakspeabe. 


ODE  ON  THE  CONSECRATION 
OF  SLEEPY-HOLLOW  CEME- 
TERY. 

Shine  kindly  forth,  September  sun, 
From  heavens  calm  and  clear, 

That  no  untimely  cloud  may  run 
Before  thy  golden  sphere, 

To  vex  our  simple  rites  to-day 
With  one  prophetic  tear. 

With  steady  voices  let  us  raise 
The  fitting  psalm  and  prayer ;  — 

Remembered  grief  of  other  days 
Breathes  softening  in  the  air : 

Who     knows      not      Death — who 
mourns  no  loss  — 
He  has  with  us  no  share. 

To  holy  sorrow  —  solemn  joy, 

We  consecrate  the  place 
Where    soon  shall  sleep  the  maid 
and  boy. 

The  father  and  his  race. 
The  mother  with  her  tender  babe, 

The  venerable  face. 

These  waving  woods  —  these  valleys 
low 

Between  these  tufted  knolls. 
Year  after  year  shall  dearer  grow 

To  many  loving  souls ; 
And  flowers  be  sweeter  here  than  blow 

Elsewhere  between  the  poles. 

For  deathless  Love  and  blessed  Grief 
Shall  guard  these  wooded  aisles, 

WTien  either  Autumn  casts  the  leaf, 
Or  blushing  Summer  smiles, 

Or  Winter  whitens  o'er  the  land, 
Or  Spring  the  buds  uncoils. 

F.  B.  Sanbokn. 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
THOMSON. 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies. 
Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing 
wave; 
The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous 
rise 
To  deck  its  poet's  sylvan  grave. 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 

His  airy  harp  shall  now  be  laid. 
That  he,    whose    heart    in    sorrow 
bleeds, 
May  love  through  life  the  soothing 
shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger 
here. 
And  while  its  sounds  at  distance 
swell, 
Shall  sadly  seem  in  Pity's  ear 
To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim's 
knell. 

Remembrance  oft   shall  haunt  the 
shore 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths 
is  drest, 
And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar, 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest. 

And  oft,  as  ease  and  health  retire 
To  breezy  lawn,  or  forest  deep. 
The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening 
spire, 
And    'mid  the   varied    landscape 
weep. 

But  thou,  who  own'st  that  earthy 
bed. 
Ah !  what  will  every  dirge  avail ; 
Or  tears,  which  love  and  pity  shed. 
That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding 
sail? 

Yet  lives  there  one,  whose  heedless 
eye 
Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glim- 
mering near  ? 
With  him,  sweet  bard,  may  fancy  die, 
And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 

But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen 
tide 
No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  at- 
tend. 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


463 


Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill's 
side 
Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried 
friend ! 

And  see  the  fairy  valleys  fade ; 

Dun  night  has  veiled  the  solemn 
view! 
Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade, 

Meek  Nature's  child,  again  adieu ! 

Thy  genial  meads,  assigned  to  bless 

Thy   life,  shall  mourn  thy    early 

doom ; 

There  hinds  and  shepherd-girls  shall 

dress 

With  simple  hands  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,  long,  thy  stone  and  pointed 
clay 
Shall  melt  the   musing    Briton's 
eyes: 
O!  vales  and  wild  woods,  shall  he 
say, 
In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies ! 

Collins. 


EPITAPH  FROM  SIMONIDES. 

Where  is  Timarchus  gone  ? 

His  father's    hands    were    round 
him, 
And  when  he  breathed  his  life  away, 

The  joy  of  youth  had  crowned  him. 
Old  man !  thou  wilt  not  forget 

Thy  lost  one,  when  thine  eye 
Gazeth  on  the  glowing  cheek 

Of  hope  and  piety. 

Anon. 

ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  "  ROY- 
AL GEORGE." 

Toll  for  the  brave  — 
The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 

All  sunk  beneath  the  wave. 
Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried. 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land  breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset : 
Down  went  the  "  Royal  George," 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 


Toll  for  the  brave ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone ; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought. 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 

And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone,  — 

His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  waves  no  more. 

COWPER. 


LINES. 

WRITTEN  AT  GRASMERE,  ON  TID- 
INGS OF  THE  APPROACHING 
DEATH  OF  CHARLES  JAMES  FOX. 

Loud  is  the  Yale !  the  voice  is  up 
With  which  she  speaks  when  storms 

are  gone, 
A  mighty  unison  of  streams ! 
Of  all  her  Yoices,  One ! 

Loud  is  the  Yale ; — this  inland  Depth 
In  peace  is  roaring  like  the  sea; 
Yon  star  upon  the  mountain-top 
Is  listening  quietly. 

Sad  was  I,  even  to  pain  deprest, 
Importunate  and  heavy  load ! 
The  Comforter  hath  found  me  here, 
Upon  this  lonely  road ; 

And  many  thousands  now  are  sad  — 
Wait  the  fulfilment  of  their  fear; 
For  he  must  die  who  is  their  stay, 
Their  glory  disappear. 


464 


PARNASSUS. 


A  Power  is  passing  from  the  earth 
To  breathless  Nature's  dark  abyss; 
But  when  the  great  and  good  depart 
What  is  it  more  than  this  — 

That   Man,  who   is  from  God   sent 

forth, 
Doth  yet  again  to  God  return  ?  — 
Such  ebb  and  flow  must  ever  be. 
Then  wherefore  should  we  mourn  ? 

WORDSWOKTH. 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

I. 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation. 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a 
mighty  nation, 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall. 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

II. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom 

we  deplore  ? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central 

roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought 

for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  forevermore. 

in. 

Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow. 
As  fits  an  universal  woe. 
Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 
And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about 

it  grow. 
And  let  the  mournful  martial  music 

blow; 
The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 


Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last. 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the 

Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he 

greet 
With   lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the 

street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is 

mute: 


Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring 

blood, 
The    statesman-warrior,    moderate, 

resolute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influ 

ence. 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime. 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
O  good   gray  head   which  all  men 

knew, 
O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all 

men  drew, 
O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O   fallen   at   length  that   tower   of 

strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the 

winds  that  blew ! 
Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The  great  World- victor's  victor  will 

be  seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done : 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  tolled. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river. 

There  he  shall  rest  forever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  tolled : 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazoned 

deeds. 
Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 
Let  the  bell  be  tolled : 
And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be 

knolled ; 
And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  an- 
them rolled 
Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross ; 
And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder 

his  loss ; 
He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 
For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His    captain' s-ear   has   heard   them 

boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom : 


DIRGES  AJtn)  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


465 


Wlien   he  wifh    those    deep  voices 

wrought, 
Guarding    realms    and   kings  from 

shame ; 
With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  cap- 
tain taught 
The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-attempered  frame. 
O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 
To  such  a  name. 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 

VI. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  hon- 
ored guest. 
With  banner  and  with  music,  with 

soldier  and  with  priest, 
With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking 

on  my  rest  ? 
Mighty  Seaman,  this-  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou 

famous  man. 
The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world 

began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums. 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 
For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea ; 
His  foes  were  thine ;  he  kept  us  free ; 
O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 
And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee ; 
For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 
He  that  gained  a  hundred  fights, 
Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun ; 
This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
Clashed  with  his  fiery  few  and  won ; 
And  underneath  another  sun. 
Warring  on  a  later  day. 
Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 
The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
Of  his  labored  rampart-lines. 
Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay. 
Whence  he  issued  forth  anew. 
And  ever  great  and  greater  grew. 
Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 
Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms. 
Back  to  France  with  countless  blows. 
Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 
Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 
30 


Followed  up  in  valley  and  glen 
With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 
Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms. 
And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 
Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 
Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  wheeled  on  Europe-shadow- 
ing wings. 
And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 
Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron 

crown 
On    that    loud    sabbath    shook  the 

spoiler  down ; 
A  day  of  onsets  of  despair ! 
Dashed  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foamed  them- 
selves away ; 
Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 
Through  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flashed  a  sudden  jubilant  ray. 
And  down  we  swept  and  charged 

and  overthrew. 
So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there. 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo ! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true. 
And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven 

guile, 
O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 
O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine. 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there 

at  all. 
Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by 

thine ! 
And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's 

voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice. 
The  proof  and  echo  of   all  human 

fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game. 
Attest    their     great     commander's 

claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to 

him. 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

VII. 

Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts ; 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  sea- 
ward wall ; 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council- 
hall 


466 


PARNASSUS. 


Forever;  and,  whatever  tempests 
lower, 

Forever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 

In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 

He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man 
who  spoke ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve 
the  hour. 

Nor  paltered  with  Eternal  God  for 
power ; 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor 
flow 

Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high 
and  low ; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  lan- 
guage rife 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life ; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe ; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one 
rebuke 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on 
the  right: 

Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Al- 
fred named ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke ; 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light, 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the 

people's  ears; 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are 

sobs  and  tears : 
The  black  earth  yawns :  the  mortal 

disappears ; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 
He  is  gone  who  seemed  so  great.  — 
Gone ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  State, 
And  that  lie  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than    any    wreath    that    man    can 

weave  him. 
Speak  no  more  of  his  renown. 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down. 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 
Tennyson. 


THE    BURIAL    OF    SIR    JOHN 
MOORE  AT  CORUNNA. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral 
note. 
As  his  corpse  to  the  rampart  we 
hurried ; 


Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell 
shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we 
buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turn- 
ing; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty 
light 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast. 

Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we 

wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his 

rest 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we 
said 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow, 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face 
of  the  dead, 
And  we   bitterly  thought  of  the 
morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  nar- 
row bed. 
And  smoothed    down   his    lonely 
pillow. 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would 
tread  o'er  his  head. 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  I 

Lightly    they'll    talk  of  the    spirit 
that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid 
him; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him 
sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has 
laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done. 
When  the  clock  tolled    the  hour 
for  retiring : 
And  we  heard  the  distant  random 
gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down. 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh 

and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not 

a  stone,  — 

But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe. 


DIEGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


467 


ON  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

Silence  augmenteth  griefe,  writing 

encreasetli  rage, 
Staid  are  my  thoughts,  which  loved 

and  lost,  the  wonder  of    our 

age, 
Yet  quickened  now  with  fire,  though 

dead  with  frost  ere  now, 
Enraged  I  write  I  know  not  what : 

dead,  quick,  I  know  not  how. 

Hard    hearted    mindes   relent,   and 

Rigor's  tears  abound, 
And  Envy  strangely  rues  his  end,  in 

whom  no  fault  she  found ; 
Knowledge  his  light  hath  lost.  Valor 

hath  slaine  her  knight: 
Sidney  is  dead,  dead  is  my  friend, 

dead  is  the  world's  delight. 

Place  pensive  wailes  his  fall,  whose 

presence  was  her  pride. 
Time  crieth  out,  my  ebbe  is  come, 

his  life  was  my  spring-tide ; 
Fame  mournes  in  that  she  lost,  the 

ground  of  her  reports. 
Each  living  wight  laments  his  lacke, 

and  all  in  sundry  sorts. 

He  was — wo  worth  that  word  —  to 

each  well  thinking  minde, 
A  spotless  friend,  a  matchless  man, 

whose  vertue  ever  shined, 
Declaring  in  his  thoughts,  his  life, 

and  that  he  writ, 
Highest  conceits,  longest  foresights, 

and  deepest  works  of  wit. 

He  onely  like  himselfe,  was  second 

unto  none, 
Where  death  —  though  life  —  we  rue, 

and  wrong,  and  all  in  vaine  do 

mone. 
Their  losse,  not  him  waile  they,  that 

fill  the  world  with  cries, 
Death  slue  not  him,  but  he  made 

death  his  ladder  to  the  skies. 

Now  sinke  of  sorrow  I,  who  live,  the 

more  the  wrong, 
Who  wishing  Death,   whom  death 

denies,  whose  thread  is  all  too 

long, 
Wlio  tied  to  wretched  life,  who  look 

for  no  relief. 
Must  spend  my  ever-dying  days  in 

never-ending  grief. 


Heart's  ease  and  onely  I,  like  para- 

leles  run  on. 
Whose  equall  length,  keepe  equall 

bredth  and  never  meete  in  one, 
Yet    for    not    wronging    him,    my 

thoughts,  my  sorrowes'  cell, 
Shall  not  run  out,  though  leake  they 

will,  for  liking  him  so  well. 

Farewel  to  you  my  hopes,  my  wont- 
ed waking  dreames, 

Farewel  sometime  enjoyed  joy 
eclipsed  are  thy  beams, 

Farewel  selfe-pleasing  thoughts, 
which  quietness  brings  forth, 

And  farewel  friendship's  sacred 
league  uniting  minds  of  worth. 

And  farewel  mery  heart,  the  gift  of 
guiltless  mindes, 

And  all  sports,  which  for  live's  re- 
store, varietie  assignes, 

Let  all  that  sweet  is  voide?  in  me 
no  mirth  may  dwell, 

Philip  the  cause  of  all  this  woe,  my 
life's  content,  farewel. 

Now  rime,  the  source  of  rage,  which 

art  no  kin  to  skill. 
And  endless  griefe  which  deads  my 

life,  yet  knows  not  now  to  kill, 
Go  seeke  that  haples  tombe,  which 

if  ye  hap  to  finde. 
Salute  the    stones,    that   keep    the 

lines,  that    held    so    good    a 

minde. 
FuLKE  Geeville,  Lokd  Brooke. 


LYCIDAS. 

[In  this  monody,  the  author  bewails  a 
learned  friend,  unfortunately  drowned  in 
his  passage  from  Chester  on  the  Irish 
seas,  1637,  and  by  occasion  foretells  the 
ruin  of  our  corrupted  clergy,  then  in 
their  height.] 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and 
once  more 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never 
sere, 

I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  Iiarsh 
and  crude. 

And  with  forced  fingers  rude. 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mel- 
lowing year. 

Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion 
dear, 


468 


PARNASSUS. 


Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season 

due: 
For  Lycidas   is  dead,  dead  ere   his 

prime, 
Young  Lycidas!  and  hath  not  left 

his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas? 

He  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty 

rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching 

wind. 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodi- 
ous tear. 
Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred 

well. 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove 

doth  spring. 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep 

the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  ex- 
cuse; 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined 

urn, 
And  as  he  passes  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable 

shroud. 
For  we  were  nurst  upon  the  self- 
same hill. 
Fed   the    same  flock,  by  fountain, 

shade,  and  rill ; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns 

appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of    the 

morn. 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together 

heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her 

sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh 

dews  of  night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose,  at  evening 

bright. 
Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped 

his  westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not 

mute. 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute. 
Rough   Satyrs   danced,   and    Fauns 

with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be 

absent  long. 
And  old  Damaetas  loved  to  hear  our 

song. 
But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou 

art  gone, 


Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must 

return !  • 

Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and 

desert  caves 
With  wild  thyme   and  the  gadding 

vine  o'ergrown. 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses 

green. 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen. 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy 

soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Or  taint- worm  to  the  weanling  herds 

that  graze. 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay 

wardrobe  wear. 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's 

ear. 
Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when 

the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved 

Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the 

steep, 
Where  your  old  Bards,  the  famous 

Druids,  lie. 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Monahigh, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva    spreads    her 

wizard  stream. 
Ay  me,  I  fondly  dream ! 
Had  ye  been  there  —  for  what  could 

that  have  done  ? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself,  that 

Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  inchanting 

son. 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When  by  the  rout  that  made  the 

hideous  roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was 

sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Les- 
bian shore  ? 
Alas!  what  boots  it  with  unces- 

sant  care 
To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shep- 
herd's trade. 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless 

Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done  as  other« 

use, 
To    sport    with   Amaryllis    in    the 

shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit 

doth  raise 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


469 


(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious 

days ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope 

to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden 

blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  ab- 
horred shears. 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.      But 

i  not  the  praise, 
Phoebus  replied,   and    touched    my 

trembling  ears ; 
Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mor- 
tal soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 
Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad 

rumor  lies ; 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those 

pure  eyes, 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging 

Jove; 
As  he  pronounces    lastly  on    each 

deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect 

thy  meed. 
O  fountain  Arethuse,   and    thou 

honored  flood. 
Smooth-sliding     Mincius,     crowned 

with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher 

mood"; 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds. 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea; 
He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the 

felon  winds, 
Wliat  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this 

gentle  swain  ? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rug- 
ged wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked 

promontory : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story, 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer 

brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dun- 
geon strayed ; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level 

brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all    her  sisters 

played. 
It    was    that    fatal    and    perfidious 

bark. 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with 

curses  dark. 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head 

of  thine. 


Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went 

footing  slow. 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet 

sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on 

the  edge 
Like    to    that    sanguine   flower  in- 
scribed with  woe. 
Ah!  Who  hath  reft  (quoth  he)  my 

dearest  pledge  ? 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go. 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake;" 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals 

twain, 
(The  golden  opes,   the    iron    shuts 

amain) 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern 

bespake ; 
How  well  could  I  have  spared  for 

thee,  young  swain, 
Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into 

the  fold  ? 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning 

make, 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shear- 
er's feast. 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden 

guest ; 
Blind  mouths !    that    scarce   them- 
selves know  how  to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught 

else  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art 

belongs ! 
Wliat  recks  it  them?    What  need 

they  ?    They  are  sped ; 
And  when  they  list  their  lean  and 

flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel    pipes    of 

wretched  straw. 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are 

not  fed, 
But  swoln  with  wind,  and  the  rank 

mist  they  draw, 
Rot  inwardly,   and    foul    contagion 

spread ; 
Besides  what  the   grim  wolf  with 

privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothiugsaid; 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the 

door 
Stands    ready  to    smite    once,  and 

smite  no  more. 
Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice 

is  past. 
That  shrunk  thy  streams;  return, 

Sicilian  Muse, 


470 


PARNASSUS. 


And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them 
hither  cast 

Their  bells,  and  flowerets  of  a  thou- 
sand hues. 

Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whis- 
pers use 

Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and 
gushing  brooks. 

On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star 
sparely  looks. 

Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enam- 
elled eyes. 

That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the 
honeyed  showers. 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  ver- 
nal flowers. 

Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  for- 
saken dies. 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessa- 
mine, 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy 
freakt  with  jet, 

The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired 
woodbine. 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the 
pensive  head. 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroi- 
dery wears : 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed. 

And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with 
tears. 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where 
Lycid  lies. 

For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with 
false  surmise. 

Ay  me !  Whilst  thee  the  shores  and 
sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones 
are  hurled, 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebri- 
des, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the 
whelming  tide 

Visit' St  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous 
world ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows 
denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guard- 
ed mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayo- 
na's  hold; 

Look  homeward  Angel  now,  and 
melt  with  ruth, 

And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hap- 
less youth« 


Weep  no  more,  woful  shepherds, 
weep  no  more, 

For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead, 

Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  wa- 
tery floor ; 

So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean 
bed. 

And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping 
head. 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new- 
spangled  ore 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morn- 
ing sky. 

So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted 
high, 

Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that 


walked  the  waves, 


and    other 


Where    other     groves, 

streams  along. 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he 

laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial 

song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy 

and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints 

above. 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  socie- 
ties, 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory 

move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  forever  from  his 

eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep 

no  more ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of 

the  shore. 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt 

be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous 

flood. 
Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to 

the  oaks  and  rills, 
Wliile  the  still  morn  went  out  with 

sandals  gray ; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  vari- 
ous quills. 
With    eager  thought    warbling    his 

Doric  lay ; 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out 

all  the  hills. 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western 

bay; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his 

mantle  blue ;  — 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pas- 
tures new. 

Milton. 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


471 


DEPARTED. 

A  SLUMBER  did  my  spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears : 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not 
feel 
The  touch  of  earthly  years. 
No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees ; 
Rolled    round    in    earth's    diurnal 
course, 
With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 
Wordsworth. 


THYRSIS. 

[A  monody  to  commemorate  the  au- 
thor's friend,  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  who 
died  at  Florence,  1861.] 

How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man 

makes  or  fills ! 
In  the  two  Hinkseys  nothing  keeps 
the  same ; 
The  village-street  its  haunted  man- 
sion lacks, 
And  from  the  sign  is  gone  Sibylla's 
name. 
And  from   the  roofs  the  twisted 
chimney-stacks. 
Are  ye,  too,  changed,  ye  hills  ? 
See,  'tis  no  foot  of  unfamiliar  men 
To-night    from    Oxford    up  your 

pathway  strays ! 
Here  came  I  often,  often,  in  old 
days; 
Thyrsis  and  I ;  we  still  had  Thyrsis 
then. 

Runs  it  not  here,  the  track  by  Childs- 

worth  Farm, 
Up  past  the  wood,  to  where  the  elm- 
tree  crowns 
The  hill  behind  whose  ridge  the 
sunset  flames  ? 
The  Signal-Elm,  that  looks  on  Ilsley 
Downs, 
The  Vale,  the  three  lone  wears, 
the  youthful  Thames  ?  — 
This  winter-eve  is  warm. 
Humid  the  air ;  leafless,  yet  soft  as 
spring, 
The  tender  purple  spray  on  copse 

and  briers ; 
And    that    sweet    City  with   her 
dreaming  spires. 
She  needs    not    June    for  beauty's 
heightening. 


Lovely  all  times  she  lies,  lovely  to- 
night. 
Only,  methinks,  some  loss  of  habit's 
power 
Befalls  me  wandering  through  this 
upland  dim. 
Once  passed  I  blindfold  here,  at  any 
hour. 
Now  seldom  come  I,  since  I  came 
with  him. 
That  single  elm-tree  bright 
Against  the  west  —  I  miss  it!  is  it 
gone? 
We  prized  it  dearly ;  while  it  stood, 

we  said. 
Our  friend,  the  Scholar-Gypsy,  was 
not  dead ; 
Wliile  the  tree  lived,  he  in  these 
fields  lived  on. 

Too  rare,   too  rare,   grow  now  my 

visits  here ! 
But  once  I  knew  each  field,  each 
flower,  each  stick. 
And    with    the    country-folk   ac- 
quaintance made 
By  barn  in  threshing-time,  by  new- 
built  rick. 
Here,  too,  our  shepherd-pipes  we 
first  assayed. 
Ah  me !  this  many  a  year 
My  pipe  is  lost.my  shepherd's  holiday. 
Needs  must  I  lose   them,   needs 

with  heavy  heart 
Into  the  world  and  wave  of  men 
depart ; 
But  Thyrsis  of  his  own  will  went 
away. 

It  irked  him  to  be  here,  he  could  not 

rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the  country 
yields. 
He  loved  his  mates;  but  yet  he 
could  not  keep. 
For  that  a  shadow  lowered  on  the 
fields, 
Here  with  the  shepherds  and  the 
silly  sheep. 
Some  life  of  men  unblest 
He  knew,  which  made  him  droop, 
and  filled  his  head. 
He  went ;  his  piping  took  a  trou- 
bled sound 
Of  storms  that  rage  outside   our 
happy  ground ; 
He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he 
is  dead. 


472 


PARNASSUS. 


So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early 

June, 
Wlien  the    year's    primal    burst  of 
bloom  is  o'er, 
Before  the  roses  and  the  longest 
day  — 
When    garden-walks,    and    all    the 
grassy  floor, 
With  blossoms,  red  and  white,  of 
fallen  May, 
And      chestnut  -  flowers,      are 
strewn  — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting 
cry, 
From  the  wet  field,  through  the 

vexed  garden-trees. 
Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and 
tossing  breeze : 
The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom 
(JO  I. 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt 

thou  go  ? 
Soon  will  the  high  Midsummer  pomps 
come  on, 
Soon    will    the    musk  carnations 
break  and  swell, 
Soon    shall    we    have     gold-dusted 
snapdragon, 
Sweet-William    with    its    homely 
cottage-smell, 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar. 
And  open,  jasmine-muffled  lattices, 
And  groups  under  the  dreaming 
garden-trees, 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white 
evening-star. 

He  hearkens  not !  light  comer,  he  is 

gone ! 
What  matters  it  ?  next  year  he  will 
return. 
And  we    shall    have  him  in  the 
sweet  spring-days, 
With    whitening    hedges,    and    un- 
crumpling  fern. 
And  blue-bells  trembling  by  the 
forest-ways, 
And  scent  of  hay  new-mown. 
But  Thyrsis  never  more  we  swains 
shall  see; 
See  him    come    back,  and  cut  a 

smoother  reed. 
And  blow  a  strain  the  world  at  last 
shall  heed,  — 
For  Time,  not  Corydon,  hath  con- 
quered thee. 


Alack,  for  Corydon  no  rival  now! 
But  when  Sicilian  shepherds  lost  a 
mate, 
Some  good  survivor  with  his  flute 
would  go, 
Piping  a  ditty  sad  for  Bion's  fate, 
And  cross  the  unpermitted  ferry's 
flow. 
And  unbend  Pluto's  brow, 
And  make  leap  up  with  joy  the  beau- 
teous head 
Of     Proserpine,      among     whose 

crowned  hair 
Are  flowers,  first  opened  on  Sicil- 
ian air; 
And  flute  his  friend,  like  Orpheus, 
from  the  dead. 


O  easy  access  to  the  hearer's  grace, 
When    Dorian    shepherds    sang    to 
Proserpine ! 
For  she  herself  had  trod  Sicilian 
fields. 
She  knew  the  Dorian  water's  gush 
divine, 
She  knew  each  lily  white  which 
Enna  yields. 
Each  rose  with  blushing  face ; 
She  loved  the  Dorian  pipe,  the  Dorian 
strain. 
But  ah,  of  our  poor  Thames  she 

never  heard ! 
Her    foot    the    Cumner    cowslips 
never  stirred ; 
And  we  should  tease  her  with  our 
plaint  in  vain. 


Well!    wind-dispersed  and  vain  the 

words  will  be, 
Yet,  Thyrsis,  let  me  give  my  grief  its 
hour 
In  the  old  haunt,  and  find  our  tree- 
topped  hill ! 
Who,  if  not  I,  for  questing  here  hath 
power  ? 
I  know  the  wood  which  hides  the 
daffodil, 
I  know  the  Fyfield  tree, 
I  know  what  white,    what    purple 
fritillaries 
The  grassy  harvest  of  the  river- 
fields. 
Above  by  Ensham,  down  by  Sand- 
ford,  yields; 
And  what  sedged  brooks  are  Thames's 
tributaries ; 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


473 


I  know  these    slopes;   who  knows 

them  if  not  I  ?  — 
But  many  a  dingle  on  the  loved  hill- 
side, 
With  thorns  once    studded,   old, 
white-blossomed  trees, 
Wliere  thick  the  cowslips  grew,  and, 
far  descried, 
High  towered  the  spikes  of  purple 
orchises, 
Hath  since  our  day  put  by 
The  coronals  of  that  forgotten  time ; 
Down  each  green  bank  hath  gone 

the  ploughboy's  team. 
And  only  in  the  hidden  brookside 
gleam 
Primroses,  orphans  of  the  flowery 
prime. 

Where  is  the  girl,  who,  by  the  boat- 
man's door. 
Above  the  locks,  above  the  boating 
throng, 
Unmoored  our  skiff,  when,  through 
the  Wytliam  flats, 
Red  loosestrife  and  blond  meadow- 
sweet among, 
And  darting  swallows,  and  light 
water-gnats. 
We    tracked    the   shy    Thames 
shore  ? 
Where  are  the  mowers,  who,  as  the 
tiny  swell 
Of  our  boat  passing   heaved  the 

river-grass, 
Stood  with  suspended    scythe  to 
see  us  pass  ? 
They  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  gone 
as  well. 

Yes,  thou  art  gone,  and  round  me 

too  the  Night 
In    ever-nearing    circle  weaves  her 
shade. 
I  see  her  veil  draw  soft  across  the 
day, 
I  feel  her  slowly  chilling  breath  invade 
The  cheek  grown  thin,  the  brown 
hair  sprent  with  gray; 
I  feel  her  finger  light 
Laid  pausefully  upon  life's  headlong 
train ; 
The  foot  less  prompt  to  meet  the 

morning  dew, 
The  heart  less  bounding  at  emo- 
tion new, 
And  hope,  once  crushed,  less  quick 
to  spring  again. 


And   long    the  way  appears,  which 

seemed  so  short 
To  the  unpractised  eye  of  sanguine 
youth ; 
And  high  the  mountain-tops,  in 
cloudy  air. 
The    mountain-tops    where    is    the 
throne  of  Truth, 
Tops    in    life's     morning-sun    so 
bright  and  bare. 
Unbreachable  the  fort 
Of  the  long-battered  world  uplifts  its 
wall ; 
And  strange  and  vain  the  earthly 

turmoil  grows. 
And  near  and  real  the  charm  of 
thy  repose, 
And  Night  as  welcome  as  a  friend 
would  fall. 

But  hush !  the  upland  hath  a  sudden 

loss 
Of  quiet.     Look!   adown  the  dusk 
hillside 
A  troop  of  Oxford  hunters  going 
home, 
As  in  old  days,  jovial  and  talking, 
ride. 
From  hunting  with  the  Berkshire 
hounds  they  come. 
Quick !  let  me  fly,  and  cross 
Into  yon  further  field.     'Tis  done; 
and  see. 
Backed  by  the  sunset,  which  doth 

glorify 
The  orange  and  pale  violet  evening- 
sky. 
Bare  on  its  lonely  ridge,  the  Tree! 
the  Tree  1 

I  take  the  omen !    Eve  lets  down  her 

veil, 
The  white  fog  creeps  from  bush  to 
bush  about. 
The  west  unflushes,  the  high  stars 
grow  bright, 
And  in  the  scattered  farms  the  lights 
come  out. 
I  cannot  reach  the  Signal-Tree  to- 
night, 
Yet,  happy  omen,  hail ! 
Hear  it  from  thy  broad  lucent  Afno 
vale, 
(For  there  thine  earth-forgetting 

eyelids  keep 
The  morningless  and  unawakening 
sleep 
Under  the  flowery  oleanders  pale,) 


474 


PAENASSUS. 


Hear  it,  O  Thyrsis,  still  our  Tree  is 

there !  — 
Ah,  vain !    These  English  fields,  this 
upland  dim. 
These    brambles    pale  with    mist 
engarlanded, 
That  lone,  sky-pointing  Tree,  are  not 
for  him. 
To  a  boon  southern  country  he  is 
fled. 
And  now  in  happier  air, 
Wandering  with  the  great  Mother's 
train  divine 
(And  purer  or  more  subtle  soul 

than  thee, 
I  trow,  the  mighty  Mother  doth 
not  see!) 
Within  a  folding  of  the  Apennine, 

Thou  hearest  the  immortal  strains 

of  old. 
Putting  his    sickle  to  the  perilous 
grain, 
In  the  hot  corn-field  of  the  Phry- 
gian king, 
For  thee  the  Lityerses  song  again 
Young  Daphnis   with    his    silver 
voice  doth  sing ; 
Sings  his  Sicilian  fold, 
His    sheep,    his    hapless    love,    his 
blinded  eyes ; 
And  how  a  call  celestial  round  him 

rang, 
And  heavenward  from  the  foun- 
tain-brink he  sprang, 
And  all  the  marvel  of  the  golden 
skies. 

There  thou  art  gone,  and  me  thou 

leavest  here, 
Sole  in  these  fields;  yet  will  I  not 
despair. 
Despair  I  will  not,  while  I  yet  des- 
cry 
'Neath  the  soft  canopy  of  English 
air 
That  lonely  Tree  against  the  west- 
ern sky. 
Still,  still  these  slopes,  'tis  clear, 
Our  Gypsy  Scholar  haunts,  outliving 
thee ! 
Fields  where  the  sheep  from  cages 

pull  the  hay. 
Woods  with  anemones  in  flower 
till  May, 
Know  him   a  wanderer   still;  then 
why  not  me  ? 


A  fugitive    and    gracious    light  he 

seeks. 
Shy  to  illumine ;  and  I  seek  it  too. 
This  does  not  come  with  houses  or 
with  gold, 
With  place,  with  honor,  and  a  flat- 
tering crew ; 
'Tis  not    in  the  world's    market 
bought  and  sold. 
But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop  by,  and  leave  its  seeker  still 
untired. 
Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  is  he 

gone. 
He  wends    unfollowed,  he   must 
house  alone ; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart 
inspired. 

Thou  too,  O  Thyrsis,  on  this  quest 

wert  bound. 
Thou  wanderedst  with  me  for  a  lit- 
tle hour. 
Men  gave  thee  nothing;  but  this 
happy  quest, 
If  men  esteemed  thee  feeble,  gave 
thee  power. 
If  men  procured  thee  trouble,  gave 
thee  rest. 
And  this  rude  Cumner  ground. 
Its  fir-topped  Hurst,  its  farms,  its 
quiet  fields, 
Here  cam'st  thou  in  thy  jocund 

youthful  time, 
Here  was  thine  height  of  strength, 
thy  golden  prime. 
And  still  the  haunt  beloved  a  virtue 
yields. 

What  though  the  music  of  thy  rustic 

flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy  country 
tone; 
Lost    it    too    soon,  and  learnt  a 
stormy  note 
Of  men  contention-tost,  of  men  who 
groan. 
Which  tasked  thy  pipe  too  sore, 
and  tired  thy  throat — 
It  failed,  and  thou  wert  mute. 
Yet  hadst  thou  alway  visions  of  our 
light. 
And  long  with  men  of  care  thou 

couldst  not  stay. 
And    soon  thy  foot  resumed  its 
wandering  way, 
Left  human  haunt,  and  on  alone  till 
night. 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


476 


Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my 

visits  here ! 
'Mid  city  noise,  not,  as  with  thee  of 
yore, 
Thyrsis,  in  reach  of  sheep-bells  is 
ray  home. 
Then  through  the  great  town's  harsh, 
heart-wearying  roar, 
Let  in  thy  voice  a  whisper  often 
come, 
To  chase  fatigue  and  fear  : 
Why  faintest  thou  f    J  wandered  till 
I  died. 
Roam  on ;   the  light  ice  sought  is 

shining  still. 
Dost  thou  ask  proof  f    Our  Tree  yet 
crowns  the  hill, 
Our  Scholar  travels  yet  the  loved  hill- 
side, 

Matthew  Arnold. 


DION. 

Mourn,  hills  and  groves  of  Attica! 
and  mourn 

Ilissus,  bending  o'er  thy  classic  urn ! 

Mourn,  and  lament  for  him  whose 
spirit  dreads 

Your  once  sweet  memory,  studious 
walks  and  shades ! 

For  him  who  to  divinity  aspired. 

Not  on  the  breath  of  popular  ap- 
plause, 

But  through  dependence  on  the 
sacred  laws 

Framed  in  the  schools  where  Wisdom 
dwelt  retired. 

Intent  to  trace  the  ideal  path  of  right 

iMore  fair  than  heaven's  broad  cause- 
way paved  with  stars) 

Which  Dion  learned  to  measure  with 
delight ; 

But  He  hath  overleaped  the  eternal 
bars; 

And,  following  guides  whose  craft 
holds  no  consent 

With  aught  that  breathes  the  ethe- 
real element. 

Hath  stained  the  robes  of  civil  power 
with  blood. 

Unjustly  shed,  though  for  the  public 
good. 

Whence  doubts  that  came  too  late, 
and  wishes  vain. 

Hollow  excuses,  and  triumphant 
pain ; 


And  oft  his  cogitations  sink  as  low 
As,  through  the  abysses  of  a  joyless 

heart. 
The  heaviest   plummet   of   despair 

can  go  — 
But  whence  that  sudden  check  ?  that 
fearful  start ! 
He  hears  an  uncouth  sound  — 
Anon  his  lifted  eyes 
Saw,  at  a  long-drawn  gallery's  dusky- 
bound, 
A  shape  of  more  than  mortal  size 
And  hideous  aspect,  stalking  round 
and  round ! 
A  woman's  garb  the  Phantom 

wore, 
And  fiercely  swept  the  marble 

floor,  — 
Like  Auster  whirling  to  and  fro. 
His  force  on  Caspian  foam  to  try ; 
Or  Boreas  when  he  scours  the  snow 
That  skins  the  plains  of  Thessaly, 
Or  when  aloft  on  Maenalus  he  stops 
His  flight,   'mid  eddying    pine-tree 
tops! 

"Avaunt,     inexplicable     Guest!  — 

a  vaunt," 
Exclaimed  the  chieftain  .  .  . 
But   Shapes  that  come  not  at   an 

earthly  call. 
Will  not  depart  when  mortal  voices 

bid; 
Lords  of   the  visionary  eye  whose 

lid. 
Once  raised,    remains    aghast,  and 

will  not  fall ! 

Ill-fated    Chief!   there    are   whose 

hopes  are  built 
Upon  the  ruins  of  thy  glorious  name ; 
Wlio,   through  the   portals    of    one 

moment's  guilt, 
Pursue  thee  with  their  deadly  aim ! 
O  matchless  perfidy !  portentous  lust 
Of  monstrous  crime !  —  that  horror- 
striking  blade. 
Drawn  in  defiance  of  the  gods,  hath 

laid 
The  noble  Syracusan  low  in  dust ! 
Shuddered  the  walls,  —  the  marble 

city  wept,  — 
And  sylvan  places  heaved  a  pensive 

sigh; 
But   in   calm  peace  the  appointed 

Victim  slept, 
As  he  had  fallen,  in  magnanimity 
Of  spirit  too  capacious  to  require 


476 


PARNASSUS. 


That   Destiny    her    course    should 

change ;  too  just 
To  his  own  native  greatness  to  desire 
That  wretched  boon,  days  lengthened 

by  mistrust. 
So  were  tlie  hopeless  troubles,  that 

involved 
The  soul  of  Dion,  instantly  dissolved. 
Released    from    life    and    cares    of 

princely  state. 
He  left  this  moral  grafted  on  his 

Fate  : 
"  Him  only  pleasure  leads,  and  peace 

attends. 
Him,  only  him,  the  shield  of  Jove 

defends, 
Whose  means  are  fair  and  spotless 

as  his  end." 

WOEDSWOKTH. 


HOSEA  BIGLOW'S  LAMENT. 

Beaver  roars  hoarse  with  melting 

snows, 
And  rattles  diamonds  from  his  gran- 
ite; 
Time    was    he  snatched  away  my 

prose. 
And  into  psalms  or  satires  ran  it ; 
But  he,  and  all  the  rest  that  once 
Started  my  blood  to  contra  dances 
Find  me  and  leave  me  but  a  dunce 
That  has  no  use  for  dreams  and  fan- 
cies. 

Rat-tat-tat-tattle  through  the  street, 
I  hear  the  drummers  making  riot. 
And  I  sit  thinking  of  the  feet 
That  followed  once    and    now  are 

quiet,  — 
White  feet  as  snow-drops  innocent. 
That  never  knew  the  paths  of  Satan, 
Sad  ears  that  listened  as  they  went, 
Lifelong  to  hear  them  come  will  wait 

on. 

Have  I  not  held  them  on  my  knee  ? 
Did  I  not  love  to  see  them  growing. 
Three  likely  lads  as  well  could  be, 
Handsome  and  brave,  and  not  too 
knowing  ? 

I  sit  and  look  into  the  blaze. 
Whose  nature,  just  like  theirs,  keeps 

climbing 
Long  as  it  lives  in  shining  ways. 
And  half  despise  myself  for  rhyming. 


What's  talk  to  them  whose  faith  and 

truth 
On  War's  red  touchstone  rang  true 

.metal, 
Who  ventured    life    and    love    and 

youth 
For  the  great  prize  of  death  in  battle  ? 

To  him  who,  deadly  hurt,  again 
Flashed  on  before  the  charge's  thun- 
der, 
Tipping  with  fire  the  bolt  of  men 
That  rived  the  Rebel  line  asunder  ? 

Come    Peace,   not    like   a  mourner 

bowed 
For  honor  lost  and  dear  ones  wasted. 
But  proud,  to  meet  a  people  proud. 
With  eyes  that  tell  of  triumph  tasted. 

Come  with  hand  gripping   on    the 

hilt, 
And  step  that  proves  you  Victory's 

daughter ! 
Longing  for  you,  our  spirits  wilt 
Like  shipwrecked  men  on  rafts  for 

water. 

Come,  while  our  Country  feels  the  lift 

Of  a  great  instinct  shouting  For- 
wards, 

And  knows  that  Freedom's  not  a 
gift 

That  tarries  long  in  hands  of  cowards. 

Come,  such  as  mothers  prayed  for, 

when 
They  kissed  their  cross  with  lips  that 

quivered, 
And  bring  fair  wages  for  brave  men, 
A  Nation  saved,  a  Race  delivered. 

Lowell. 


OTHELLO'S    LAST  WORDS. 

Soft  you ;  a  word  or  two  before  you 

go. 

I  have  done  the  state  some  service, 
and  they  know  it : 

No  more  of  that. —I  pray  you,  in 
your  letters, 

Wlien  you  shall  these  unlucky  deeds 
relate, 

Speak  of  me  as  I  am;  nothing  ex- 
tenuate, 

Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice:  then 
must  you  speak 


DIRGES  AND  PATHETIC  POEMS. 


477 


Of  one  that  loved,  not  wisely,  but  too 

well; 
Of  one  not  easily  jealous,  but,  being 

wrought, 
Perplexed  in  the  extreme;   of  one 

whose  hand, 
Like  the  base  Indian,  threw  a  pearl 

away 
Richer   than    all  his  tribe;    of  one 

whose  subdued  eyes. 
Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood. 
Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian 

trees 


Their  medicinal  gum.   Set  you  down 
this, 

And  say,  besides,  that    in   Aleppo 
once. 

Where  a  malignant  and  a  turbaned 
Turk 

Beat  a  Venetian,  and  traduced  the 
state, 

I  took  by  the  throat  the  circumcised 
dog, 

And  smote  him  —  thus.     [Stabs  him- 
self. 

Shakspeabe. 


COMIC  AND   HUMOROUS. 

SATIEICAL. 


COMIC  AH"D   HUMOEOUS. 


HOLY  WILLIE'S  PEAYER. 

0  Thou,  wha  in  the  Heavens  dost 

dwell, 
Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel', 
Sends  ane  to  Heaven,  and  ten  to 
Hell, 

A'  for  thy  glory. 
And  no  for  onie  guid  or  ill 

They've  done  afore  thee! 

1  bless    and  praise  thy  matchless 

might. 
Whan  thousands  thou  hast  left  in 

night. 
That  I  am  here  afore  thy  sight. 

For  gifts  an'  grace, 
A  burning  an'  a  shining  light, 
To  a'  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation, 
That  I  should  get  such  exaltation  ? 
I,  wha  deserve  such  just  damnation, 

For  broken  laws, 
Five  thousand  years  'fore  my  crea- 
tion. 

Through  Adam's  cause. 

When  frae   my  mither's   womb   I 

fell, 
Thou  might  hae  plunged  me  into 

Hell, 
To  gnash  my  gums,   to  weep  and 
wail, 

In  burnin'  lake. 
Where  damned  Devils  roar  and  yell, 
Chained  to  a  stake. 

Yet  I  am  here  a  chosen  sample. 
To  show  thy  grace  is  great  and  am- 
ple; 
I'm  here  a  pillar  in  thy  temple. 

Strong  as  a  rock, 
A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example 

To  a'  thy  flock. 


O  Lord,  thou  kens  what  zeal  I  bear, 
When  drinkers  drink,  and  swearers 

swear, 
And  singing  there,  and  dancing  here, 

Wi'  great  and  sma' : 
For  I  am  keepit  by  thy  fear, 

Free  frae  them  a'. 

But  yet,  O  Lord !  confess  I  must, 
At  times  I'm  fashed  wi'  fleshly  lust, 
An'    sometimes,    too,    wi'    wt,rldly 
trust,  — 

Yile  self  gets  in ; 
But  thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Defiled  in  sin. 


Maybe  thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn 
Beset  thy  servant  e'en  and  morn. 
Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should 
turn, 

'Cause  he's  sae  gifted: 
If    sae,    thy   hand   maun    e'en    be 
borne, 

Until  thou  lift  it. 

Lord,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place, 
For  here  thou  hast  a  chosen  race ; 
But  God  confound  their  stubborn 
face, 

And  blast  their  name, 
Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace, 

An'  public  shame. 

Lord,  mind  Gawn  Hamilton's  de- 
serts, 
He  drinks,  an'  swears,  an'  plays  at 

cartes. 
Yet  has  sae  monie  takin'  arts, 
Wi'  great  and  sma', 
Frae  God's  ain  priests  the  people's 
hearts 

He  steals  awa\ 
481 


482 


PAKNASSUS. 


An'  when  we  chastened  him  there- 
fore, 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore, 
As  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 

O'  laughin'  at  us ;  — 
Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  and  potatoes. 

Lord,  hear  my  earnest  cry  an'  prayer. 
Against  that  presbyt'ry  o'  Ayr; 
Thy  strong  right  hand.  Lord,  make 
it  bare, 

Upo'  their  heads ; 
Lord,    weigh    it  down,   and   dinna 
spare, 

For  their  misdeeds. 

O  Lord  my  God,  that  glib-tongued 

Aiken, 
My  very  heart  and  saul  are  quakin'. 
To  think  how  we  stood  sweatin', 
shakin', 

An'  swat  wi'  dread, 
While  he  wi'  hinging  lips  gaed  snak- 
in', 

An'  hid  his  head. 

Lord,  in  the  day  o'  vengeance  try 

him. 
Lord,   visit  them  wha  did  employ 

him, 
And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  'em, 

Nor  hear  their  prayer : 
But  for  thy  people's  sake  destroy  'em, 
And  dinna  spare. 

But,  Lord,  remember  me  and  mine 
Wi'  mercies  temp'ral  and  divine. 
That  I    for   gear    and   grace   may 
shine, 

Excelled  by  nane. 
An'  a'  the  glory  shall  be  thine. 
Amen,  Amen. 

Burns. 


TO  THE  UNCO  GUID,  OR  THE 
RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 

O  YE  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel', 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 
Ye've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and 
tell 

Your  Neebor's  fauts  and  folly! 
Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water, 
The  heapet  happer's  ebbing  still. 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 


Hear  me,  ye  venerable  Core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals. 
That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's 
door, 

For  glaikit  Folly's  portals ; 
I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 

Would  here  propone  defences, 
Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mis- 
takes. 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compared, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer, 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard. 

What  makes  the  mighty  differ  ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 
And  (what's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hidin'. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop. 
What  raging  must  his  veins    con- 
vulse. 

That  still  eternal  gallop : 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way : 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail. 

It  maks  an  unco  leeway. 

See  Social  Life  and  Glee  sit  down, 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 
Till,    quite  transmugrified,    they're 
grown 

Debauchery  and  Drinking : 
O  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

Th'  eternal  consequences ; 
Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state, 

Damnation  of  expenses  I 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  Dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces, 
Before  ye  gie  poor  Frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases ; 
A  dear-loved  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination  — 
But  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug. 

Ye' re  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  Man, 

Still  gentler  sister  Woman, 
Though  they  may  gang   a    kennie 
wrang. 

To  step  aside  is  human : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark. 

The  moving  Why  they  do  it ; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 


COMIC  AND  HUMOROUS. 


483 


Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord  —  its  various 
tone, 
Each  spring  —  its  various  bias : 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it : 
What's  done  we   partly  may  com- 
pute, 
But  know  not  what's  resisted. 

Burns. 


TO  THE  DEVIL. 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  NicMe-hen! 
O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  might,  — I  dinna  ken, 

Still  hae  a  stake  — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upon  yon  den. 

Even  for  your  sake ! 

BUENS. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  DIDACTIC 
POETRY. 

When  wise  Minerva  still  was  young. 

And  just  the  least  romantic. 
Soon  after  from  Jove's    head    she 
flung, 

That  preternatural  antic, 
'Tis  said  to  keep  from  idleness 

Or  flirting,  — those  twin  curses, — 
She  spent  her  leisure,  more  or  less, 

In  writing  po — ,  no,  verses. 

How  nice  they  were !  to  rhyme  with 

A  kind  star  did  not  tarry ; 
The  metre,  too,  was  regular 

As  schoolboy's  dot  and  carry; 
And  full  they  were  of  pious  plums, 

So  extra-super-moral,  — 
For  sucking  Virtue's  tender  gums 

Most  tooth-enticing  coral. 

A  clean,  fair  copy  she  prepares, 

Makes  sure  of  moods  and  tenses. 
With  her  own  hand,  —  for  prudence 
spares 

A  man-  (or  woman)  -uensis ; 
Complete,    and    tied    with    ribbons 
proud, 

She  hinted  soon  how  cosey  a 
Treat  it  would  be  to  read  them  loud 

After  next  day's  Ambrosia. 


The   Gods    thought   not   it   would 
amuse 

So  much  as  Homer's  Odyssees, 
But  could  not  very  well  refuse 

The  properest  of  Goddesses ; 
So  all  sat  round  in  attitudes 

Of  various  dejection, 
As  with  a  hem !  the  queen  of  prudes 

Began  her  grave  prelection. 

At  the  first  pause  Zeus  said,  "Well 
sung ! — 
I     mean  —  ask     Phoebus,  —  he 
knows." 
Says  Phoebus,   ''Zounds!    a  wolf's 
among 
Admetus's  merinos ! 
Fine !  very  fine !  but  I  must  go ; 

They  stand  in  need  of  me  there ; 
Excuse  me!"   snatched    his    stick, 

and  so 
Plunged  down  the  gladdened  ether. 

With  the  next  gap,  Mars  said,  "  For 
me 
Don't     wait, — nought    could   be 
finer, 
But  I'm  engaged  at  half -past  three,  — 

A  fight  in  Asia  Minor ! " 
Then    Venus    lisped,    ''  How    very 
thad ! 
It  rainth  down  there  in  torrinth ; 
But  I  mutht  go,  becauthe  they've 
had 
A  thacrifithe  in  Corinth!" 

Then  Bacchus,  —  "  With  those  slam- 
ming doors 
I  lost  the  last  half  dist — (hie!) 
Mos'   bu'ful  se'ments!   what's    the 
Chor's? 
My  voice  shall  not  be  missed  — 
(hie!)" 
His  words  woke  Hermes ;  "  Ah ! "  he 
said, 
"  I  so  love  moral  theses ! " 
Then  winked  at  Hebe,  who  turned 
red, 
And  smoothed  her  apron's  creases. 

Just  then  Zeus  snored,  —  the  Eagle 
drew 
His  head  the  wing  from  under ; 
Zeus  snored,  —  o'er  startled  Greece 
there  flew 
The  many-volumed  thunder ; 
Some  augurs  counted  nine,  —  some, 
ten, — 


484 


PARNASSUS. 


Some  said,  'twas  war,  some,  fam- 
ine, — 
And  all,  that  other-minded  men 
Would  get  a  precious . 

Proud  Pallas  siglied,  "  It  will  not  do ; 

Against    the    Muse    I've   sinned, 
oh!" 
A.nd  her  torn  rhymes  sent    flying 
through 

Olympus' s  back  window. 
Then,  packing  up  a  peplus  clean. 

She  took  the  shortest  path  thence, 
And  opened,  with  a  mind  serene, 

A  Sunday  school  in  Athens. 

The  verses  ?    Some  in  ocean  swilled. 

Killed  every  fish  that  bit  to  'em; 
Some  Galen  caught,  and,  when  dis- 
tilled. 

Found  morphine  the  residuum ; 
But  some  that  rotted  on  the  earth 

Sprang  up  again  in  copies. 
And    gave     two     strong    narcotics 
birth,  — 

Didactic  bards  and  poppies. 

Years  after,  when  a  poet  asked 

The  Goddess's  opinion. 
As  being  one  whose  soul  had  basked 

In  Art's  clear-aired  dominion,  — 
**  Discriminate,"     she    said,     "be- 
times; 

The  Muse  is  unforgiving ; 
Put  all  your  beauty  in  your  rhymes. 

Your  morals  in  your  living." 

Lowell. 


TAM  O'  SHANTER. 

When  chapman    billies  leave    the 

street, 
And  drouthy  neebors,  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late. 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
A-n'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy. 
We  thinkna  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Wliare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering 

storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 
This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  O' 

Shanter, 
As  he  f rae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter 


(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  sur- 
passes. 

For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses). 
O  Tam !  hadst  thou  but  been  sae 
wise, 

As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  wast   a 
skellum, 

A  blethering,   blustering,    drunken 
blellum ; 

That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober ; 

That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 

That  every  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on. 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou 
on; 

That  at  the  Lord's  house,  even  on 
Sunday, 

Thou  drank  wi'   Kirkton  Jean  till 
Monday. 

She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon. 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drowned 
in  Doon  : 

Or  catched  wi'  warlocks  i'  the  mirk, 

By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 
Ah,    gentle    dames!    it   gars    me 
greet, 

To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 

How  mony  lengthened,  sage  advices, 

The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  I 
But  to  our  tale :  Ae  market  night, 

Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 

Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  di- 
vinely ; 

And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnny, 

His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony ; 

Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither; 

They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  the- 
gither. 

The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and 
clatter ; 

And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better : 

The  landlady  and    Tam  grew  gra- 
cious, 

Wi'   favors,  secret,  sweet,  and  pre- 
cious : 

The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 

The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  cho- 
rus: 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and 
rustle, 

Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whis- 
tle. 
Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 

E'en  drowned  himself  amang   the 
nappy ! 


COMIC   AND   HUMOROUS. 


485 


As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treas- 
ure, 
Tlie  minutes  winged  their  way  wi' 

pleasure : 
Kings  may  be  blessed,  but  Tarn  was 

glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious ! 
But    pleasures    are    like    poppies 

spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is 

shed; 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white  —  then  melts  for- 
ever; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can    point  their 

place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide ;  — 
The  hour   approaches    Tam    maun 

ride; 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the 

key-stane. 
That   dreary  hour  he    mounts    his 

beast  in ; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 
The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its 

last; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on    the 

blast ; 
The    speedy   gleams    the    darkness 

swallowed ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder 

bellowed : 
That  night,  a  child  might  under- 
stand. 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 
Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare, 

Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, 
Tam  skelpit  on    through    dub  and 

mire. 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his   guid  blue 

bonnet; 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots 

sonnet ; 
Whiles  glowering  round  wi'  prudent 

cares. 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk  AUoway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly 

cry. 
By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Wliare   in  the   snaw  the   chapman 

smoored ; 


And  past  the  birks  and  meikle-stane, 

Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck- 
bane; 

And  through  the  whins,  and  by  the 
cairn, 

Whare  hunters  fand  the  murdered 
bairn : 

And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Whare  Mungo's  mither  hanged  her- 
sel. 

Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 

The  doubling  storm  roars  through 
the  woods ; 

The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole ; 

Near  and  more  near  the  thunders 
roll: 

When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groan- 
ing trees, 

Kirk  AUoway  seemed  in  a  bleeze ; 

Through  ilka  bore  the  beams  were 
glancing; 

And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dan- 
cing. 
Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn! 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us 
scorn ! 

Wi'  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi'  usquebae,  we'll  face  the  Devil ! 

The  swats  sae  reamed  in  Tammie's 
noddle. 

Fair  play,  he  cared  na  deils  a  boddle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  aston- 
ished. 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admon- 
ished, 

She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 

And,  wow !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance; 

Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and 
•  reels. 

Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

At  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 

There  sat  auld  Nick,   in  shape  o' 
beast ; 

A  towzie   tyke,    black,    grim,    and 
large,  ' 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge : 

He  screwed  the  pipes  and  gart  them 
skirl. 

Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.  — 

Coffins    stood    round,     like     open 
presses. 

That  shawed  the  dead  in  their  last 
dresses ; 

And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight, 

Each    in    its    cauld    hand    held    a 
hght,  — 


■186 


PARNASSUS. 


By  which  heroic  Tom  was  able 

To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims; 

Twa  span-lang,   wee,    unchristened 
bairns : 

A  thief,  iiew-cutted  frae  a  rape, 

Wi'  -his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape ; 

Five    tomahawks,     wi'     blude    red 
rusted ; 

Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted ; 

A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  stran- 
gled; 

A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  man- 
gled, 

Wliom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft, 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu'. 

Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlaw- 
fu^ 
As  Tammie  glowered,  amazed  and 
curious, 

The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  fu- 
rious : 

The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew; 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew ; 

They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed, 
they  cleekit. 

Till  ilka  carlin  sweat  and  reekit. 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark. 

And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark ! 
Now  Tam,  O  Tarn !  had  thae  been 
queans, 

A'   plump  and    strapping    in    their 
teens ; 

Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flan- 
nen. 

Been  snaw-white  seventeen-hunder 
linnen ! 

Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 

That  ance  were  plush,  o'  gude  blue 
hair, 

I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  hur- 
dles. 

For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  burdies ! 
But  withered  beldams,  auld  and 
droll, 

Rigwoodie  hags,  wad  spean  a  foal, 

Lowping  and  flinging  on  a  crum- 
mock, 

I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 
But  Tam  kend  what  was  what  fu' 
brawlie, 

"There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and 
walie," 

That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kend  on  Carrick  shore; 

For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perished  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 


And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and 

bear. 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear, ) 
Her  cutty-sark,  o'  Paisley  barn, 
That,  while  a  lassie,  she  had  worn. 
In  longitude  though  sorely  scanty. 
It  was  her  best  and  she  was  vaunt- 

ie.  — 
Ah!  little  kend  thy  reverend  gran- 
nie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nan- 
nie, 
Wi'   twa  pund  Scots,  ('twas  a'  her 

riches,) 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches ! 
But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun 
cour ; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power ; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang 
(A  souple  jade  she  was,  and  Strang), 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  be- 
witched. 
And  thought  his  very  e'en  enriched ; 
Even  Satan  glowered,  and  fidged  fu' 

fain. 
And  botched  and  blew  wi'  might  and 

main : 
Till  first  ane  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty- 
sark!" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark ; 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke. 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their 

byke ; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes. 
When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their 

nose ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
Wlien,  "  Catch  the  thief!"  resounds 

aloud ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  monie  an  eldritch  screech  and 
hollow. 
Ah,   Tam!  ah,   Tam!  thou' 11  get 
thy  fairin ! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  her- 

rin! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woef  u'  woman ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may 

toss, 
A    running    stream    they    dare    na 
cross. 


COMIC  AND  HUMOROUS. 


487 


But  ere    the    key-stane    she    could 

make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle ; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's    met- 
tle— 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  lAaster 

hale. 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 
The  carlin  caught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 
Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall 
read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  tak  heed ; 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined. 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind. 
Think,   ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er 

dear, 
Remember  Tam  O'  Shanter's  mare. 

BUENS. 


THE  WITCH  OF  FIFE. 

"WHERfi  have  ye  been,  ye  ill  wo- 
man. 
These     three     lang    nights    frae 
hame? 
What  gars  the  sweat  drap  frae  yer 
brow. 
Like  drops  o'  the  saut  sea-f aem  ? 

"It  fears  me  muckle  ye  have  seen 
What  gude  man  never  knew ; 

It  fears  me  muckle  ye  have  been. 
Where  the  gray  cock  never  crew. 

"  But  the  spell  may  crack,  and  the 
bridle  break. 
Then  sharp  yer  word  will  be ; 
Ye  had  better  sleep  in  yer  bed  at 
hame, 
Wi'    yer    dear    little    bairns    and 
me." 

"Sit  dune,  sit  dune,  my  leal  auld 
man, 

Sit  dune,  and  listen  to  me ; 
I'll  gar  the  hair  stand  on  yer  crown. 

And  the  cauld  sweat  blind  yer  e'e. 

"But  tell  nae  words,  my  gude  auld 
man, 

Tell  never  a  word  again ; 
Or  dear  shall  be  your  courtesy. 

And  driche  and  sair  yer  pain. 


"  The  first  leet  night,  when  the  new 
moon  set, 
Wlien  all  was  doufEe  and  mirk, 
We  saddled  our  nags  wi'  the  moon- 
fern  leaf, 
And  rode  frae  Kilmerrin  kirk. 

"Some  horses  were  of  the  brume- 
cow  framed. 
And  some  of  the  green  bay  tree ; 
But  mine  was  made  of  ane  hemlock 
shaw. 
And  a  stout  stallion  was  he. 

"  We  raide  the  tod  doune  on  the  hill, 

The  martin  on  the  law ; 
And  we  hunted  the  owlet  out  o' 
breath. 

And  forced  him  doune  to  fa'." 

"  What  guid  was  that,  ye  ill  woman? 

What  guid  was  that  to  thee  ? 
Ye  would  better  ha^ve  been  in  yer  bed 
at  hame, 
Wi'    yer   dear    little   bairns    and 
me."  — 

"And  aye  we  rode,  as  sae  merrily  rode, 
Through  the  merkest  gloffs  of  the 

night ; 
And  we  swam  the  flood,   and   we 

darnit  the  wood. 
Till  we  came  to  the    Lommond 

height. 

"  And  when  we  came  to  the  Lom- 
mond height, 
Sae  lightly  we  lighted  doune ; 
And  we  drank  frae  the  horns  that 
never  grew, 
The  beer  that  was  never  browin. 

"  Then  up  there  rose  a  wee  wee  man, 
From  neath  the  moss-gray  stane ; 

His  face  was  wan  like  the  colliflower, 
For  he  neither  had  blude  nor  bane. 

"  He  set  a  reed-pipe  till  his  mouth; 

And  he  played  sae  bonnily, 
Till  the  gray  curlew,  and  the  black- 
cock flew 

To  listen  his  melodye. 

"  It  rang  sae  sweet  through  the  green 
Lommond, 

That  the  night- wind  lowner  blew ; 
And  it  soupit  alang  the  Loch  Leven, 

And  wakened  the  white  sea-mew. 


488 


PARNASSUS. 


"It  rang  sae  sweet  through  the  green 
Lommond, 
Sae  sweetly  and  sae  shrill, 
That  the  weasels  leaped  out  of  their 
mouldy  holes, 
And  danced  on  the  midnight  hill. 

"  The  corhy  crow  came  gledging  near, 
The  erne  gaed  veering  bye ; 

And  the  trouts  leaped    out    of   the 
Leven  Loch, 
Charmed  with  the  melodye. 

"  And  aye  we  danced  on  the  green 
Lommond, 

Till  the  dawn  on  the  ocean  grew : 
Nae  wonder  I  was  a  weary  wight 

When  I  cam  hame  to  you."  — 

"What  guid,  what  guid,  my  weird, 
weird  wyfe, 
What  guid  was  that  to  thee  ? 
Ye  wad  better  haye  been  in  yer  bed 
at  hame, 
Wi'    yer    dear    little    bairns    and 
me."  — 

"The  second  night,  when  the  new 
moon  set. 

O'er  the  roaring  sea  we  flew; 
The  cockle-sliell  our  trusty  bark. 

Our  sails  of  the  green  sea-rue. 

"  And  the  bauld  winds  blew,  and  the 
fire-flauchts  flew. 
And  the  sea  ran  to  the  sky ; 
And  the  thunder  it  growled,  and  the 
sea-dogs  howled. 
As  we  gaed  scurrying  by. 

"  And  aye  we  mounted  the  sea-green 
hills, 
Till  we  brushed  through  the  clouds 
of  heaven. 
Then    soused    downright    like    the 
stern-shot  light, 
Fra  the  lift's  blue  casement  driven. 

"  But  our  tackle  stood,  and  our  bark 
was  good. 
And  sae  pang  was  our  pearly  prow ; 
When  we  couldna  speil  the  brow  of 
the  waves. 
We  needled  them  through  below. 

"  As  fast  as  the  hail,  as  fast  as  the 
gale. 
As  fast  as  the  midnight  leme, 


We  bored  the  breast  of  the  bursting 
swale, 
Or  fluffed  in  the  floating  faem. 

"And  when  to  the  Norroway  shore 
we  wan, 
We  mounted  our  steeds  of  the  wind. 
And  we  splashed  the  floode,  and  we 
•darn it  the  wood. 
And  we  left  the  shore  behind. 

"  Fleet  is  the  roe  on  the  green  Lom- 
mond, 
And  swift  is  the  couryng  grew ; 
The  rein-deer  dun  can  eithly  run. 
When  the  hounds  and  the  horns 
pursue. 

"  But  neither  the  roe,  nor  the  rein- 
deer dun, 
The  hind  nor  the  couryng  grew. 
Could  fly  o'er  mountain,  moor,  and 
dale. 
As  our  braw  steeds  they  flew. 

"The  dales  were  deep,  and  the  Dof- 
frins  steep. 
And  we  rose  to  the  skies  ee-bree : 
White,  white  was  our  road  that  was 
never  trode. 
O'er  the  snows  of  eternity. 

"  And  when  we  came  to  the  Lapland 
lone. 

The  fairies  were  all  in  array. 
For  all  the  genii  of  the  north 

Were  keeping  their  holiday. 

"  The  warlock  men  and  the  weird 
women. 
And  the  fays  of  the  wood  and  the 
steep. 
And  the  phantom  hunters  all  were 
there. 
And  the  mermaids  of  the  deep. 

"  And  they  washed  us  all  with  the 
witch-water, 
Distilled  frae  the  moorland  dew, 
Till  our  beauty  bloomed    like    the 
Lapland  rose. 
That  wild  in  the  foreste  grew."  — 

"  Ye  lee,  ye  lee,  ye  ill  woman, 

Sae  loud  as  I  hear  ye  lee ! 
For  the  worst-faured  wyfe  on  the 
shores  of  Fyfe 

Is  comely  compared  wi'  thee."  — 


COMIC  AND  HUMOROUS. 


489 


"  Then  the  mermaids  sang,  and  the 
woodlands  rang, 

Sae  sweetly  swelled  the  choir ; 
On  every  cliffe  a  harp  they  hang, 

On  every  tree  a  lyre. 

"  And  aye  they  sang,  and  the  wood- 
lands rang, 
And  we  drank,  and  we  drank  sae 
deep ; 
Then  soft  in  the  arms  of  the  warlock 
men, 
We  laid  us  dune  to  sleep."  — 

"  Away,  away,  ye  ill  woman, 
An  ill  death  miglit  ye  dee ! 

When  ye  hae  proved  sae  false  to  yer 
God, 
Ye  can  never  prove  true  to  me."  — 

"And  there  we  learned  frae  the  fairy 
folk, 
And  frae  our  master  true. 
The  words  that  can  bear  us  through 
the  air, 
And  locks  and  bars  undo. 

*'  Last  night  we  met  at  Maisry's  cot; 

Right  well  the  words  we  knew ; 
And  we   set  a  foot  on    the    black 
cruik-shell. 

And  out  at  the  lum  we  flew. 

"  And  we  flew  o'er  hill,  and  we  flew 
o'er  dale. 

And  we  flew  o'er  firth  and  sea, 
Untill  we  cam  to  merry  Carlisle, 

Where  we  lighted  on  the  lea. 

"  We  gaed  to  the  vault  beyond  the 
tower. 
Where  we  entered  free  as  air ; 
And  we  drank,  and  we  drank  of  the 
bishop's  wine 
Till  we  could  drink  nae  mair."  — 

"  Gin  that  be  true,  my  gude  auld 
wyfe, 

Whilk  thou  hast  tauld  to  me. 
Betide  my  death,  betide  my  lyfe, 

I'll  bear  thee  company. 

"  Next  time  ye  gang  to  merry  Car- 
lisle 

To  drink  of  the  blude-red  wine, 
Beshrew  my  heart,  I'll  fly  with  thee, 

If  the  deil  should  fly  behind."  — 


"Ah!   little  ye  ken,  my  silly  auld 
man, 
The  dangers  we  maun  dree ; 
Last  night  we  drank  of  the  bishop's 
wine, 
Till  near  near  taen  were  we. 

"  Afore  we  wan  to  the  sandy  ford, 
The  gor-cocks  nichering  flew ; 

The  lofty  crest  of  Ettrick  Pen 
Was  waved  about  with  blue. 

And,  flichtering  through  the  air,  we 
fand 
The  chill  chill  morning  dew. 

"  As  we  flew  o'er  the  hills  of  Braid, 
The  sun  rose  fair  and  clear; 

There  gurly  James,  and  his  barons 
braw. 
Were  out  to  hunt  the  deer. 

"  Their  bows  they  drew,  their  arrows 
flew. 

And  pierced  the  air  with  speed, 
Till  purple  fell  the  morning  dew 

With  witch-blude  rank  and  red. 

"  Little  ye  ken,  my  silly  auld  man, 
The  dangers  we  maun  dree ; 

Ne  wonder  I  am  a  weary  wight 
When  I  come  hame  to  thee."  — 


"  But  tell  me  the  word,  my  gude 
auld  wyfe. 
Come  tell  it  me  speedily ; 
For  I  long  to  drink  of  the  gude  red 
wine. 
And  to  wing  the  air  with  thee. 

"Yer  hellish  horse  I  willna  ride, 
Nor  sail  the  seas  in  the  wind ; 

But  I  can  flee  as  well  as  thee. 
And  I'll  drink  till  ye  be  blind." 

"  O  fy!  O  fy!  my  leal  auld  man, 

That  word  I  d arena  tell ; 
It  would  turn  this  warld  all  upside 
down. 

And  make  it  warse  than  hell. 

"  For  all  the  lasses  in  the  land 
Wald  mount  the  wind  and  fly ; 

And  the  men  would  doff  their  dou- 
blets syde, 
And  after  them  would  ply."  — 


490 


PAr.NASSUS. 


But  the  auld  gude  man  was  a  cun- 
ning auld  man. 
And  a  cunning  auld  man  was  he ; 
And  he  watched    and  he  watched 
for  mony  a  night, 
The  witches'  flight  to  see. 

One  night  he  darnit  in  Maisry's  cot; 

The  fearless  hags  came  in ; 
And  he  heard  the  word  of  awesome 
weird ; 

And  he  saw  their  deeds  of  sin. 

Then  ane  by  ane,  they  said  that  word, 
As  fast  to  the  fire  they  drew ; 

Then  set  a  foot  on  the  black  cruik- 
shell, 
And  out  at  the  lum  they  flew. 

The  auld  gudeman  came  frae  his  hole 
With  fear  and  muckle  dread, 

But  yet  he  couldna  think  to  rue, 
For  the  wine  came  in  his  head. 

He  set  his  foot  in  the  black  cruik- 
shell. 
With  a  fixed  and  a  wawling  ee; 
And  he  said  the  word  that  I  darena 
say, 
And  out  at  the  lum  flew  he. 

The  witches  scaled  the  moon-beam 
pale ; 
-Deep  groaned  the  trembling  wind ; 
But  they  never  wist  that  our  auld 
gudeman 
Was  hovCTing  them  behind. 

They  flew  to  the  vaults  of  merry 

Carlisle, 

Where  they  entered  free  as  air ; 

And  they  drank,  and  they  drank  of 

the  bishop's  wine 

Till  they  coulde  drink  nae  mair. 

The    auld    gudeman    he    grew  sae 

crouse. 

He  danced  on  the  mouldy  ground, 

And  he  sang  the  bonniest  songs  of 

Fife, 

And  he  tuzzlit  the  kerlyngs  round. 

And  aye  he  pierced  the  tither  butt, 
And  he  sucked,  and  he  sucked  sae 
lang, 
Till  his  een  they  closed,   and    his 
voice  grew  low, 
And  his  tongue  would  hardly  gang. 


The  kerlyngs  drank  of  the  bishop's 
wine 
Till    they  scented    the    morning 
wind ; 
Then  clove  again  the  yielding  air. 
And  left  the  auld  man  behinde. 

And  aye  he  slept  on  the  damp  damp 
floor, 
He  slept  and  he  snored  amain ; 
He  never  dreamed  he  was  far  frae 
hame. 
Or  that  the  auld  wives  were  gane. 

And  aye  he  slept  on  the  damp  damp 
floor. 
Till  past  the  mid-day  heighte. 
When  wakened  by  five  rough  Eng- 
lishmen, 
That  trailed  him  to  the  lighte. 

''  Now  wha  are  ye,  ye  silly  auld  man. 
That    sleeps    sae    sound  and  sae 
weel? 

How  gat  ye  into  the  bishop's  vault 
Through  locks  and  bars  of  steel  ?  " 

The  auld  gudeman  he  tried  to  speak, 

But  ane  M^ord  he  couldna  finde ; 
He    tried    to    think,   but    his  head 
whirled  round. 
And  ane  thing  he  couldna  minde: 
"I  cam  frae  Fyfe,"  the  auld  man 
cried, 
"And   I    cam    on    the    midnight 
winde." 

They  nicked  the  auld  man,  and  they 
pricked  the  auld  man. 
And  they  yerked  his  limbs  with 
twine. 
Till  the  red  blude  ran  in  his  hose 
and  shoon, 
But  some  cried  it  was  wine. 

They  licked  the  auld  man,  and  they 
pricked  the  auld  man. 

And  they  tyed  him  till  ane  stone ; 
And  they  set  ane  bele-fire  him  about. 

To  burn  him  skin  and  bone. 

"  O  wae  to  me ! "  said  the  puir  auld 
man, 

"  That  ever  I  saw  the  day  I 
And  wae  be  to  all  the  ill  women 

That  lead  puir  men  astray  I 


COMIC  AND  HUMOEOUS. 


491 


"  Let  nevir  ane  auld  man  after  this 
To  lawless  greede  incline ; 

Let  never  ane  auld  man  after  this 
Rin  post  to  the  deil  for  wine." 

The  reeke  flew  up  in  the  auld  man's 
face, 
And  choked  him  bitterlye ; 
And  the  low  cam  up  with  an  angry- 
blaze, 
And  he  singed  his  auld  breek-nee. 

He  looked  to  the  land  frae  whence 
he  came, 
For  looks  he  coulde  get  ne  mae ; 
And  he  thoughte  of  his  dear  little 
bairns  at  hame, 
And  O  the  auld  man  was  wae ! 

But  they  turned  their  faces  to  the 
sun, 
With  gloffe  and  wonderous  glare, 
For  they  saw  ane  thing  baith  large 
and  dun, 
Comin  sweeping  down  the  aire. 

That  bird  it  cam  frae  the  lands  o' 
Fife, 
And  it  cam  right  tymeouslye, 
For  who  was  it  but  the  auld  man's 
wife. 
Just  comed  his  death  to  see. 

She  put  ane  red  cap  on  his  heade, 
And  the  auld  gudeman  looked  fain, 

Then  whispered  ane  word  intil  his 
lug, 
And  toved  to  the  aire  again. 

The  auld  gudeman  he  gae  ane  bob 
I'  the  midst  o'  the  burning  lowe ; 

And  the  shackles  that  bound  him  to 
the  ring. 
They  fell  frae  his  arms  like  towe. 

He  drew  his  breath,  and  he  said  the 
word, 
And  he  said  it  with  muckle  glee. 
Then  set  his  feet  on  the  burning 
pile, 
And  away  to  the  aire  flew  he. 

Till    ance    he  cleared  the   swirling 
reeke. 
He  lukit  baith  feared  and  sad ; 
But  when  he  wan  to  the  light  blue 
aire, 
He  laughed  as  he'd  been  mad. 


His  arms  were  spread,  and  his  heade 
was  highe, 
And  his  feet  stuck  out  behinde ; 
And  the  laibies  of  the  auld  man's 
coat 
Were  wauffing  in  the  wind. 

And  aye  he  neicherit,  and  aye  he  flew, 
For  he  thought  the  play  sae  rare ; 

It  was  like  the  voice  of  "the  gander 
blue. 
When  he  flees  through  the  aire. 

He  looked  back  to  the  Carlisle  men 
As  he  bored  the  norlan  sky ; 

He  nodded  his  heade,  and  gave  ane 
girn 
But  he  never  said  gude-bye. 

They  vanished  far  i'  the  lift's  blue 
wale, 
Nae  maire  the  English  saw, 
But  the  auld  man's  laughe  came  on 
the  gale, 
With  a  lang  and  a  loud  gaffaw. 

May  everilke  man  in  the  land  of  Fife 
Read  what  the  drinker's  dree; 

And  never  curse  his  puir  auld  wife, 
Righte  wicked  altho  she  be. 

Hogg. 


COLLUSION  BETWEEN  A  ALE- 
GAITER  AND  A  WATER-SNAIK. 

TRIUMPH    OF    THE    WATER-SNAIK! 
DETH  OF  THE  ALEGAITER. 

"  There  is  a  niland  on  a  river  lying, 
Which  runs  into  Gautimaly,  a  warm 

country, 
Lying   near  the    Tropicks,   covered 

with  sand ; 
Hear   and    their    a   symptum  of    a 

Wilow, 
Hanging  of    its  umberagious  limbs 

&  branches 
Over  the  clear  streme  meandering 

far  below. 
This  was  the  home  of  the  now  silent 

Alegaiter, 
When  not  in  his  other  element  con- 

fine'd: 
Here  he    wood  set   upon  his  eggs 

asleep 
With   1    ey    observant   of   flis  and 

other  passing 


492 


PARNASSUS. 


Objects :  a  while  it  kept  a  going  on  so : 
Fereles   of    danger  was  the    happy 

Alegaiter ! 
But  a  las!  in  a  nevil  our  he  was 

fourced  to 
Wake!  that  dreme  of  Blis  was  two 

sweet  for  him. 
1  morning  the  sun  arose  with  un- 

usool  splender 
Whitch  allso  did  our  Alegaiter^  com- 
ing from  the  water, 
His  scails  a  flinging  of  the  rais  of  the 

son  back, 
To    the    fountain-head    which    tha 

originly  sprung, 
But  having  not  had  nothing  to  eat 

for  some  time,  he 
Was    slepy  and    gap'd,   in  a   short 

time,  widely. 
Unfoalding  soon  a    welth  of    perl- 
white  teth. 
The  rais  of  the  son  soon  shet  his 

sinister  ey 
Because  of   their  mutool    splendor 

and  warmth. 
The  evil  Our  (which  I  sed)  was  now 

come; 
Evidently  a  good  chans  for  a  water 

snaik 
Of    the    large    specie,    which    soon 

appeared 
Into    the    horison,    near   the    bank 

where  repos'd 
Calmly  in  slepe  the  Alegaiter  before 

spoken  of, 
About  60  feet  was  his  Length  (not 

the  'gaiter) 
And  he  was  aperiently  a  well-pro- 
portioned snaik. 
When  he  was  all  ashore  he  glared 

upon 
The  iland  with  approval,  but  was  soon 
*  Astonished  with  the  view  and  lost 

to  wonder'  (from  Wats) 
(For  jest  then  he  began  to  see  the 

Alegaiter) 
Being  a  nateral  enemy  of  his'n,  he 

worked  hisself 
Into  a  fury,  also  a  ni  position. 
Before  the  Alegaiter  well  could  ope 
His  eye  (in  other  words  perceive  his 

danger) 
The  Snaik  had  enveloped  his  body 

just  19 
Times  with  *  foalds  voluminous  and 

vast'  (from  Milton) 
And  had  tore  off  several  scails  in  the 

confusion, 


Besides  squeazing  him  awfully  into 
his  stomoc. 

Just  then,  by  a  fortinate  turn  in  his 
affairs. 

He  ceazed  into  his  mouth  the  care- 
less tale 

Of  the  unreflecting  water-snaiki 
Grown  desperate 

He,  finding  that  his  tale  was  fast 
squesed 

Terrible  while  they  roaled  all  over 
the  iland. 

It  was  a  well-conduckted  Affair ;  no 

noise 
Disturbed  the  harmony  of  the  seen, 

ecsept 
Onct  when  a  Wilow  was  snaped  into 

by  the  roaling. 
Eeach  of  the  combatence  hadn't  a 

minit  for  holering. 
So  the  conflick  was  naterally  tremen- 

jous! 
But  soon  by  grate  force  the  tale  was 

bit  complete- 
Ly  of ;  but  the  eggzeration  was  too 

much 
For  his  delicate   Constitootion :    he 

felt  a  compression 
Onto  his   chest  and  generally  over 

his  body ; 
When  he  ecspress'd  his  breathing, 

it  was  with 
Grate  difficulty  that  he  felt  inspired 

again  onct  more. 
Of  course  this  State  must  suffer  a 

revolootion. 
So  the  Alegaiter  give  but  one  yel, 

and  egspired. 
The  water-snaik  realed  hisself  off, 

&  survay'd 
For  say  10  minits,  the  condition  of 
His  fo :  then  wondering  what  made 

his  tail  hurt, 
He  sloly  went  off  for  to  cool." 

J.  W.  MOEEIS. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE, 
OR  THE  WONDERFUL  "ONE- 
HOSS-SHAY." 

A    LOGICAL  STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful 

one-hoss-shay. 
That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 


COMIC  AND  HUMOROUS. 


493 


And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but 

stay, 
I'll  tell  you  what  happened  without 

delay. 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 
Frightening    people    out     of    their 

wits,  — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German 

hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her 

down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so 

brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one- 

hoss-shay. 

Now  in  building  of   chaises,  I  tell 

you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest 

spot,  — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 
In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill. 
In    screw,    bolt,    thoroughbrace, — 

lurking  still. 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and 

will,  — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  with- 
out,— 
And  that's  the   reason,  beyond    a 

doubt, 
A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn't 

wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore,  (as  Deacon's 

do. 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum,"  or  an  *'  I  tell 

?/eoM,") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the 

taown 
'n'  the  keountry  'n'  all  the  kentry 

raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn^ 

break  daown : 
— ''Fur,"   said  the    Deacon,   "'t's 

mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan' 

the  strain ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the 

rest." 


So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village 

folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  couldn't  be  split  nor  bent  nor 

broke,  — 
That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and 

sills ; 
He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the 

thills ; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the 

straightest  trees ; 
The     panels    of    white-wood,   that 

cuts  like  cheese, 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things    like 

these ; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "Settler's 

ellum,"  — 
Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  couldn't 

sell  'em, 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between 

their  lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery- 
tips; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw. 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and 

wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old 

hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner 

died. 
That    was    the   way   he  "put  her 

through."  — 
"There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "naow 

she'll  dew  I" 

Do !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned 
gray. 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren — where 
were  they? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one- 
hoss-shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake- 
day! 

Eighteen  hundred  ; — it  came  and 

found 
The    Deacon's    mastei-piece    strong 

and  sound. 
Eighteen     hundred     increased    by 

ten ;  — 
"Hahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it 

then. 


494 


PABNASSUS, 


Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ; 
Running  as  usual ;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  Forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  Fifty  and  Fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth 
year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking 
queer. 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps 
its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large ; 

Take  it.  You're  welcome.  No  ex- 
tra charge. ) 

First  of  Novembeb,  —  the  Earth- 
quake-day. — 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one- 
hoss-shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay. 

But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 

There  couldn't  be, — for  the  Dea- 
con's art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one 
to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as 
the  thills. 

And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as 
the  sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as 
the  floor. 

And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor 
more. 

And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as 
the  fore, 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 

And  yet,  as  a  whoUy  it  is  past  a 
doubt 

In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  Fifty-five ! 
This  morning   the  parson  takes   a 

drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss- 

shay. 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked 

bay. 
"  Huddup ! "  said  the  parson.  — Off 

went  they. 

The  Parson  was  working  his  Sun- 
day's text,  — 

Had  got  to  fifthly,  said  stopped  per- 
plexed 


At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming 

next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still. 
Close  by  the  meet' n' -house  on  the 

hill. 

—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then    something    decidedly    like    a 

spill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a 

rock. 
At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet'n'- 

house  clock,  — 
Just  the    hour   of   the  Earthquake 

shock ! 

—  What  do  you  think  the  parson 

found, 
Wlien  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or 

mound. 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and 

ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a 

dunce. 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss-shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That's  all  I  say. 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


THE  COURTIN.' 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown, 
An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  bender. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung 
An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 

The  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther 
Young 
Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 
All  crinkly  like  curled  maple. 

The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 


COMIC  AND  HUMOEOUS. 


495 


She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a 
swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir ; 
My !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'    she'd    blush    scarlit,   right    in 
prayer, 

When  lier  new  meetin'-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  ! 

She  seemed  to've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 
A-raspin'  on  the  scraper,  — 

All  ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew 
Like  sparks  in  burnt-uiD  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  I'itered  on  the  mat, 
Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle. 

His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat. 
But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"  You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose  ?  " 
"Wal  ...  no  ...  I     come    da- 
signin'  "  — 
"To  see  my  Ma?     She's  sprinklin' 
clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  act  so  or  so. 
Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin' ; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust. 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other. 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  couldn't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "I'd  better  call  agin ; " 
Says  she,  "  Think  likely,  Mister;" 

That  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin. 
An'  .  .  .  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
^11  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 


For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 
Whose  naturs  never  vary, 

Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer 
mind 
Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt 
glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressin'. 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 

And  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 
Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 

An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 
In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 

Lowell  :  Bujlow  Papers. 


HER  LETTER. 

I'm  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 
Dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance. 
In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire,  — 
It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France ; 
I'm  bediamonded  out  of  all  reason, 
My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  cue : 
In  short,  sir,  "the  belle  of  the  sea- 
son" 
Is  wasting  an  hour  on  you. 

A  dozen  engagements  I've  broken; 
I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set ; 
Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken. 
That  waits  —  on  the  stairs  —  for  me 

yet. 
They  say  he'll  be  rich,  —  when  he 

grows  up,  — 
And  then  he  adores  me  indeed. 
And  you,sir,are  turning  your  nose  up, 
Three  thousand  miles  off,  as  you  read. 

"  And  how  do  I  like  my  position  ?  " 
"  And    what    do   I    think   of  New 

York?" 
"  And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition, 
With  whom  do  I  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk  ?  " 
"And  isn'^t  it  nice  to  have  riches. 
And    diamonds    and    silks,  and  all 

that?" 
"And  aren't    it  a  change    to    the 

ditches 
And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat?" 

Well  yes,  — if  you  saw  us  out  driving 
Each  day  in  the  park,  four-in-hand ; 
If  you  saw  poor  dear  mamma  con- 
triving 
To  look  supematurally  grand,  ^- 


496 


PAENASSUS. 


If  you  saw  papa's  picture,  as  taken 
By  Brady,  and  tinted  at  that,  — 
You'd  never  suspect  be  sold  bacon 
And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

And  yet,  just  this   moment,  when 

sitting 
In  the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier, 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 
The  "finest  soiree  of  the  year,"  — 
In  the  mists  of  a  gaze  de  chambery 
And  the  hum  of    the   smallest    of 

talk,  — 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  "The 

Ferry," 
And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  "  The 

Fork;" 

Of  Harrison's  barn,  with  its  muster 

Of  flags  festooned  over  the  wall ; 

Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft 
lustre 

And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl ; 

Of  the  steps  that  we  took  to  one  fid- 
dle; 

Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-a-vis ; 

And  how  I  once  went  down  the 
middle 

With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy 
McGee ; 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleep- 
ing 
On  the  hill,  when  the  time  came  to 

go; 
Of  the  few  baby  peaks   that  were 

peeping 
From    under    their    bed-clothes    of 

snow; 
Of  that  ride, — that  to  me  was  the 

rarest ; 
Of  —  the  something  you  said  at  the 

gate: 
Ah,  Joe,  then  I  wasn't  an  heiress 
To  "the   best-paying    lead    in    the 

State." 

Well,  well,  it's  all  past ;  yet  it's  funny 
To  think,  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 
Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 
That   I    should  be    thinking,  right 

there, 
Of  some  one  who  breasted  highwater, 
And  swam    the    North   Fork,   and 

all  that. 
Just  to  dance  with  old  Folinsbee's 

daughter. 
The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 


But  goodness!  what  nonsense  I'm 

writing! 
(Mamma  says  my  taste  still  is  low,) 
Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 
I'm  spooning  on  Joseph,  — heigh-ho ! 
And  I'm  to  be  "finished"  by  travel, 
Whatever's  the  meaning  of  that, — 
O,  why  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 
In  drifting  on  Poverty  Flat  ? 

Good-night,  —  here's  the  end  of  my 

paper; 
Good-night,  —  if      the     longitude 

please,  — 
For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 
Your  sun's  climbing  over  the  trees. 
But  know,  if  you  haven't  got  riches, 
And  are  poor,dearest  Joe,  and  all  that, 
That  my  heart's  somewhere  there  in 

the  ditches. 
And  you've  struck  it,  —  on  Poverty 

Flat. 

Beet  Harte. 


HIS  ANSWER  TO   "HER    LET- 
TER." 

REPORTED    BY  TRUTHFUL,   JAMES. 

Being  asked  by  an  intimate  party  — 
Which  the  same  I  would  term  as  a 
friend  — 
Which  his  health  it  were  vain  to  call 
hearty. 
Since  the  mind  to  deceit  it  might 
lend; 
For  his  arm  it  was  broken  quite  re- 
cent, 
And  has   something  gone  wrong 
with  his  lung,  — 
Wliich  is  why  it  is  proper  and  decent 
I  should  write  what  he  runs  off 
his  tongue. 

First,  he  says.  Miss,  he's  read  through 
your  letter 
To  the  end,  —  and  the  end  came 
too  soon. 
That  a  slight  illness  kept  him  your 
debtor 
(Which  for  weeks  he  was  wild  as  a 
loon). 
That  his  spirits  are  buoyant  as  yours 
is; 
That  with  you,  Miss,  he  challen- 
ges Fate, 
(Which  the  language  that  invalid  uses 
At  times  it  were  vain  to  relate). 


COMIC  A^D  HUMOROUS. 


497 


^nd  he  says  that  the  mountains  are 
fairer 
For    once    being    held    in    your 
thought ; 
That  each  rock  holds  a  wealth  that 
is  rarer 
Than  ever  by  gold-seeker  sought  — 
(Which  are  words  he  would  put  m 
these  pages, 
By  a  party  not  given  to  guile; 
Which  th,3  same  not,  at  date,  paying 
wages, 
Might   produce    in    the    sinful    a 
smile. ) 

He  remembers  the  ball  at  the  Ferry, 
And  the  ride,  and  the  gate,  and 
the  vow, 
And  the  rose  that  you  gave  him  — 
that  very 
Same  rose  he  is  treasuring  now ; 
(Which  his  blanket  he's  kicked  on 
his  trunk,  Miss, 
And  insists  on  his  legs  being  free ; 
And  his   language  to  me  from  his 
bunk.  Miss, 
Is  frequent  and  painful  and  free. ) 

He  hopes  you  are  wearing  no  willows, 
But  are  happy   and  gay  all    the 
while ; 
That  he  knows —  (which  this  dodg- 
ing of  pillows 
Imparts  but  small  ease  to  the  style. 
And  the  same  you  will  pardon)  — 
he  knows,  Miss, 
That,  though  parted  by  many  a 
mile, 
Yet,  were  he  lying  under  the  snows, 
Miss, 
They'd  melt  into    tears    at  your 
smile. 

And  you'll  still  think  of  him  in  your 
pleasures, 
In  your  brief  twilight-dreams  of 
the  past. 
In  this  green  laurel-spray  that   he 
treasures. 
It  was  plucked  where  your  parting 
was  last. 
In  this  specimen  —  but  a  small  tri- 
fle- 
It  will  do  for  a  pin  for  your  shawl ; 
(Which  the   truth  not  to  wickedly 
stifle. 
Was  his  last  week's  "  clean  up  "  — 
and  his  all.) 
32 


He's  asleep  —  which  the  same  might 
seem  strange.  Miss, 
Were  it  not  that  I  scorn  to  deny 
That  I  raised  his  last  dose  for  a 
change,  Miss, 
In  view  that  his  fever  was  high. 
But  he  lies  there  quite  peaceful  and 
pensive ; 
And,  now,  my  respects.  Miss,  to 
you; 
Which,  my  language,  although  com- 
prehensive. 
Might  seem  to  be  freedom  —  it's 
true. 

Which  I  have  a  small  favor  to  ask 
you. 
As  concerns  a  bull-pup,  which  the 
same  — 
If  the  duty  would  not  overtask  you  — 
You  would  please  to  procure  for 
me,  game, 
And  send  per  express  to  the  Flat, 
Miss, 
Which  they  say  York  is  famed  for 
the  breed, 
Which  though  words  of  deceit  may 
be  that — Miss, 
I'll  trust  to  your  taste.  Miss,  in- 
deed. 

P.  S.  —  Which  this  same  interfering 

In  other  folks'  ways  I  despise  — 
Yet,  if  so  be  I  was  hearing 

That  it's  just  empty  pockets  as 
lies 
Betwixt  you  and  Joseph  —  it  follers 

That,  having  no  family  claims, 
Here's  my  pile  —  which  it's  six  hun- 
dred dollars, 
As    is,    yours,   with    respects,  — 
Truthful  James. 

Bket  IIarte. 


ATHEISM. 

''There  is  no  God,"   the  wicked 

saith, 
"And  truly  it's  a  blessing, 
For  what  he  might  have  done  with  us 
It's  better  only  guessing." 

"There  is   no    God,"   a  youngster 

thinks, 
"  Or  really  if  there  may  be, 
He  surely  didn't  mean  a  man 
Always  to  be  a  baby." 


498 


PAKNASSUS. 


"  Whether  there  be,"  the  rich  man 

thinks, 
•*  It  matters  very  little, 
For  I  and  mine,  thank  somebody, 
Are  not  in  want  of  victual." 

Some  others  also  to  themselves 
Who  scarce  so  much  as  doubt  it, 
Think  there  is  none,  when  they  are 

well. 
And  do  not  think  about  it. 

But  country-folks  who  live  beneath 
The  shadow  of  the  steeple ; 
The  parson,  and  the  parson's  wife. 
And  mostly  married  people ; 

Youths  green  and  happy  in  first  love, 

So  thankful  for  illusion ; 

And  men  caught  out  in   what  tlie 

world 
Calls  guilt  and  first  confusion ; 

And  almost  every  one  when  age, 
Disease,  and  sorrow  strike  him,  — 
Inclines  to  think  there  is  a  God, 
Or  something  very  like  him. 

A.  H.  Clough. 


DOROTHY  Q. 

A  FAMILY   PORTliAIT. 

Grandmother's  mother;  lier  age, 

I  guess, 
Thirteen     summers,    or    something 

less ; 
Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air. 
Smooth,  square  forehead,  with  up- 
rolled  hair, 
Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed. 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist, 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stifE  brocade  — 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 
Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene; 
Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view  — 
Look !  there's  a  rent  the  light  shines 

through, 
Dark  with    a    century's    fringe    of 

dust,  — 
That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust ! 
Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 


Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell, — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well ; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed. 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been 

pressed ; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white ; 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 

Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born  ! 

Ay!    since  the  galloping    Normans 

came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her 

name; 
And  still  to  tlie  three-liilled  rebel 

town 
Dear  is  tliat  ancient  name's  renown, 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won. 
The  youthful    sire    and    the    gray- 
haired  son. 

O  damsel  Dorothy !    Dorothy  Q. ! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save    to    daughter    or    son    might 

bring  — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land ; 
Mother  and   sister,   and  child    and 

wife, 
And  joy  and  sorrow,  and  death  and 

life! 

Wliat  if  a  hundred  years  ago 
Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered, 

No, 
Wlien  forth  the  tremulous  question 

came 
That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman 

name ; 
And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 
The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's 

thrill? 
Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 
One-tenth    another    to    nine-tenths 

me? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  Yes: 
Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with 

less ; 
But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 
Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and 

blast. 
And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 
That  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so 

long! 


COMIC  AND  HUMOROUS. 


m 


There  w«re  tones  in  the  voice  that 

whispered  then 
You  may  liear  to-day  in  a  hundred 

men! 

0  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  and  here  we  are. 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's  —  all  their 

own  — 
A  goodly  record  for  time  to  show 
Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago !  — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive. 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me 

live? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid ! 

1  will  heal  the  stab  of  the  Red-Coat's 

blade. 

And  freshen  the  gold  of    the  tar- 
nished frame. 

And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  house- 
hold name, 

So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and 
bright 

As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's 
light, 

And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 

Through  a  second  youth  of  a  hun- 
dred years. 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


CONTENTMENT. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

Little  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own ;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten ;  — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three. 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.  Amen ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice ;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla  ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land ;  — 
Give  me    a    mortgage    here    and 
there,  — 
Some  good  bank-stock,  —  some  note 
of  hand, 
Or  trifling  railroad  share;  — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 


Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names ;  — 
I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 
But  only  near  St.  James ;  — 
I'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  baubles;  'tis  a  sin 
To    care     for      such     unfruitful 
things ;  — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 
Will  do  for  me ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame    should    dress    in    cheap 
attire ; 
(Good,    heavy    silks    are    never 
dear;)  — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 
So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  an4 
stare ; 
An  easy  gait — two,  forty-five—^ 
Suits  me ;  I  do  not  care ;  — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 
Titians    and    Raphaels    three    or 
four,  — 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone,  — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more,  — 
(A  landscape,  —  foreground  golden 

dirt; 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt. ) 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear ; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor ;  — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam. 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  things 
as  these. 
Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
I  value  for  their  power  to  please, 
And  selfish  churls  deride ;  — 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 
Two   Meerschaums,    I    would   fain 


500 


PARNASSUS. 


Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not 

learn, 
Nor    ape    the    glittering    upstart 

fool ; — 
Shall  not    carved    tables  serve  my 

turn, 
But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give     grasping    pomp    its    double 

share,  — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch. 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 

I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 
O.  W.  Holmes. 


THE  FIGHT  OYER  THE  BODY 
OF  KEITT. 

A  fragment  from  the  great  American  epic, 
the  Washingtoniad. 

Sing,  O  goddess,  the  wrath,  the  on- 
tamable  dander  of  Keitt — 

Keitt  of  South  Carolina,  the  clear 
grit,  the  tall,  the  ondaunted  — 

Him  that  hath  wopped  his  own  nig- 
gers till  Northerners  all  unto 
Keitt 

Seem  but  as  niggers  to  wop,  and  hills 
of  the  smallest  potatoes. 

Late  and  long  was  the  fight  on  the 
Constitution  of  Kansas ; 

Daylight  passed  into  dusk,  and  dusk 
into  lighting  of  gas-lamps ;  — 

Still  on  the  floor  of  the  house  the 
heroes  unwearied  were  fight- 
ing. 

Dry  grew  palates  and  tongues  with 
excitement  and  expectoration, 

Plugs  were  becoming  exhausted,  and 
Representatives  also. 

Who  led  on  to  the  war  the  anti- 
Lecomptonite  phalanx? 

Grow,  hitting  straight  from  the 
shoulder,  the  Pennsylvania 
Slasher; 

Him  followed  Hickman,  and  Potter 
the  wiry,  from  woody  Wiscon- 
sin; 

Washburne  stood  with  his  brother,  — 
Cad wallader  stood  with  Elihu ; 

Broad  Illinois  sent  the  one,  and 
woody  Wisconsin  the  other. 


Mott  came  mild  as  new  milk,  with 

gray   hairs    under  his  broad 

brim. 
Leaving  the  first  chop  location  and 

water  privilege  near  it. 
Held  by  his  fathers  of  old  on  the 

willow-fringed  banks  of  Ohio. 
Wrathy    Covode,   too,   I    saw,   and 

Montgomery    ready  for    mis- 
chief. 
Who  against  these  to  the  floor  led  on 

the  Lecomptonite  legions  ? 
Keitt  of  South  Carolina,  the  clear 

grit,  the  tall,  the  ondaunted  — 
Keitt,  and  Reuben  Davis,  the  ra'al 

boss  of  wild  Mississippi ; 
Barksdale,    wearer     of     wigs,    and 

Craige  from  North  Carolina ; 
Craige  and   scorny  McQueen,    and 

Owen,  and  Lovejoy,  and  La- 
mar, 
These  Mississippi  sent  to  the  war, 

"  tres  juncti  in  uno.^' 
Long    had    raged    the    warfare    of 

words;    it    was    four    in    the 

morning : 
Whittling    and    expectoration    and 

liquorin'  all  were  exhausted, 
Wlien  Keitt,  tired  of  talk,  bespake 

Reu.  Davis,  ''  O  Reuben, 
Grow's  a  tarnation  blackguard,  and 

I've  concluded  to  clinch  him." 
This  said,  up  to  his  feet  he  sprang, 

ancl  loos' ning  his  choker, 
Straighted  himself  for  a  grip,  as  a 

bai-hunter    down    in  Arkan- 
sas 
Squares  to  go  in  at  the  bar,  when 

the  dangerous  varmint  is  cor- 
nered. 
*'  Come  out,  Grow,"  he  cried,  "  you 

Black  Republican  puppy. 
Come  on  the  floor,  like  a  man,  and 

darn  my  eyes,  but  I'll  show 

you"— 
Him  answered  straight-hitting  Grow, 

"  Waal  now,  I  calkilate,  Keitt, 
No  nigger-driver  shall  leave  his  plan- 
tation in  South  Carolina, 
Here  to  crack  his  cow-hide  round 

this  child's  ears,  if  he  knows 

it." 
Scarce  had  he  spoke  when  the  hand, 

the  chivalrous  five  fingers  cf 

Keitt, 
Clutched  at  his  throat,  —  had  they 

closed,  the  speeches  of  Grow 

had  been  ended,  — 


COMIC  AND  HUMOROUS. 


501 


Never  more  from  a  slump  had  he 
stirred  up  the  free  and  en- 
lightened ;  — 

But  though  smart  Keitt's  mauleys, 
the  mauleys  of  Grow  were  still 
smarter ; 

Straight  from  the  shoulder  he  shot, — 
not  Owen  Swift  or  Ned  Adams 

Ever  put  in  his  right  with  more  del- 
icate feeling  of  distance. 

As  drops  hammer  on  anvil,  so 
dropped  Grow's  right  into 
Keitt 

Just  where  the  jugular  runs  to  the 
point  at  which  Ketch  ties  his 
drop-knot ;  — 

Prone  like  a  log  sank  Keitt,  his  dol- 
lars rattled  about  him. 

Forth  sprang  his  friends  o'er  the 
body ;  first,  Barksdale,  waving- 
wig-wearer, 

Craige  and  McQueen  and  Davis,  the 
ra'al  hoss  of  wild  Mississippi; 

Fiercely  they  gathered  round  Grow, 
catawampously  up  as  to  chaw 
him  ; 

But  without  Potter  they  reckoned, 
the  wiry  from  woody  Wiscon- 
sin; 

He,  striking  out  right  and  left,  like 
a  catamount  varmint  and 
vicious, 

Dashed  to  the  rescue,  and  with  him 
the  Washburnes,  Cadwallader, 
Elihu ; 

Slick  into  Barksdale' s  bread-basket 
walked  Potter's  one,  two, — 
hard  and  heavy ; 

Barksdale  fetched  wind  in  a  trice, 
dropped  Grow,  and  let  out  at 
Elihu. 

Then  like  a  fountain  had  flowed  the 
claret  of  Washburne  the  elder. 

But  for  Cadwallader' s  care,  —  Cad- 
wallader, guard  of  his  brother. 

Clutching  at  Barksdale' s  nob,  into 
Chancery  soon  would  have 
drawn  it. 

Well  was  it  then  for  Barksdale,  the 
wig  that  waved  over  his  fore- 
head: 

Off  in  Cadwallader' s  hands  it  came, 
and,  the  wearer  releasing, 

Left  to  the  conqueror  nought  but  the 
scalp  of  his  baldheaded  foe- 
man. 

Meanwhile  hither  and  thither,  a  dove 
on  the  waters  of  trouble, 


Moved  Mott,  mild  as  new  milk,  with 

his  gray  hair  under  his  broad 

brim, 
Preaching  peace  to  deaf  ears,  and 

getting  considerably  damaged. 
Cautious  Covode  in  the  rear,  as  du- 
bious what  it  might  come  to. 
Brandished    a    stone-ware    spittoon 

'gainst  whoever  might  seem  to 

deserve  it,  — 
Little  it  mattered  to  him  whether 

Pro  or  Anti-Lecompton, 
So  but  he  found  in  the  Hall  a  foeman 

worthy  his  weapon ! 
So  raged  this  battle  of  men,  till  into 

the  thick  of  the  melee, 
Like  to  the  heralds  of  old,  stepped 

the  Sergeant-at-Arms  and  the 

Speaker. 

London  Punch. 


PURITANS. 

Cub  brethren  of  New  England  use 
Choice  malefactors  to  excuse. 
And  hang  the  guiltless  in  their  stead. 
Of  whom   the  churches  have    less 

need; 
As  late  it  happened  in  a  town 
Where  lived  a  cobbler,  and  but  one, 
That  out  of  doctrine  could  cut  use. 
And  mend  men's  lives  as  well  as  shoes. 
This  precious  brother  having  slain 
In  times  of  peace  an  Indian, 
Not  out  of  malice,  but  mere  zeal, 
Because  he  was  an  infidel ; 
The  mighty  Tottipotimoy 
Sent  to  our  elders  an  envoy, 
Complaining  loudly  of  the  breach 
Of    league    held    forth    by  brother 

Patch, 
Against  the  articles  in  force 
Between    both    churches,    his    and 

ours ; 
For  which  he  craved  the  saints  to 

render 
Into  his  hands,  or  hang  the  offender. 
But  they  maturely  having  weighed 
They  had  no  more  but  him  of  the 

trade, 
A  man  that  served  them  in  the  double 
Capacity  to  teach  and  cobble. 
Resolved  to  spare  him ;  yet  to  do 
The  Indian  Hogan  Mogan  too 
Impartial  justice,  in  his  stead  did 
Hang  an  old  weaver  that  was  bedrid. 
Butler. 


602 


PARNASSUS. 


THE  OLD  COVE. 

"  All  we  ask  is  to  be  let  alone." 

As  vonce  I  valked  by  a  dismal  svamp, 
There  sot  an  Old  Cove  in  tlie  dark 

and  damp, 
And  at  everybody  as  passed  that  road 
A  stick  or  a  stone  this   Old  Cove 

throvred. 
And  venever  he  flung  his   stick  or 

his  stone, 
He'd  set  up  a  song  of   "Let  me 

alone." 

"  Let  me  alone,  for  I  loves  to  shy 
These  bits  of  things  at  the  passers 

by  — 
Let  me  alone,  for  I've  got  your  tin 
And  lots  of  other  traps  snugly  in ;  — 
Let  me  alone,  I'm  riggin  a  boat 
To  grab  votever  you've  got  afloat ;  — 
In  a  veek  or  so  I  expects  to  come 
And  turn  you  out  of  your  'ouse  and 

'ome;  — 
I'm  a  quiet  Old  Cove,"  says  he,  vith 

a  groan : 
"  All  I  axes  is  —  Let  me  alone." 

Just  then  came  along  on  the  self- 
same vay, 
Another  Old  Cove,  and  began  for  to 

say  — 
"Let  you  alone!    That's  comin'  it 

strong !  — 
You've  ben  let  alone  —  a  darned  sight 

too  long ;  — 
Of  all  the  sarce  that  ever  I  heerd ! 
Put  down  that   stick!     (You    may 

well  look  skeered. ) 
Let  go   that    stone!    If    you    once 

show  fight, 
I'll  knock  you  higher  than  ary  kite. 
You  must  hev  a  lesson  to  stop  your 

tricks, 
And  cure  you  of  shying  them  stones 

and  sticks,  — 
An  I'll  hev  my  hardware  back  and 

my  cash. 
And  knock  your  scow  into  tarnal 

smash, 
And  if  ever  I  catches  you  'round 

my  ranch, 
I'll   string  you  up  to  the   nearest 

branch. 

The  best  you  can  do  is  to  go  to  bed. 
And  keep  a  decent  tongue  in  your 
head ; 


For  I  reckon,  before  you  and  I  are 

done, 
You'll  wish  you  had  let  honest  folks 

alone." 
The    Old    Cove    stopped,    and    the 

t'other  Old  Cove 
He  sot  quite  still  in  his  cypress  grove. 
And  he  looked  at  his  stick  revolvin' 

slow 
Vhether   'twere  safe  to  shy   it   or 

no,  — 
And  he  grumbled  on,  in  an  injured 

tone, 
"  All  that  I  axed  vos,  let  me  alone.*' 
H.  H.  Bkownell. 


JOYE  AND  THE  SOULS. 

Amazed,    confused,    its    fate    un- 
known, 
The  world  stood  trembling  at  Jove's 

throne ; 
While  each  pale  sinner  hung  his  head, 
Jove    nodding  shook  the  heavens, 

and  said ; 
"  Offending  race  of  human  kind, 
By  nature,  reason,  learning,  blind ; 
You  who    through    frailty  stepped 

aside, 
And  you  who  never  erred  through 

pride ; 
You   who    in   different   sects  were 

shammed. 
And  come  to  see  each  other  damned ; 
(So  some  folks  told  you,  but  they 

knew 
No  more  of  Jove's  designs  than  you. ) 
The  world's  mad  business  now  is  o'er, 
And  I  resent  your  freaks  no  more ; 
I  to  such  blockheads  set  my  wit, 
I  damn  such  fools  —  go,  go,  you're 

bit!" 

Swift. 

CIHIQUITA. 

Beautiful  !  Sir,  you  may  say  so. 
Thar  isn't  her  match  in  the 
county. 

Is  thar,  old  gal,  —  Chiquita,  my 
darling,  my  beauty  ? 

Feel  of  that  neck,  sir,  —  thar's  vel- 
vet !    Whoa ! 

Steady,  —  ah,  will  you,  you  vixen! 

Whoa!  I  say.  Jack,  trot  her  out; 
let  the  gentleman  look  at  her 
paces. 


COMIC  AND  HUMOROUS. 


603 


Morgan!  —  She  ain't  nothin'  else, 
and  I've  got  the  papers  to 
prove  it. 

Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve 
hundred  dollars  won't  buy  her. 

Briggs  of  Tuolumne  owned  her.  Did 
you  know  Briggs  of  Tuo- 
lumne ?  — 

Busted  hisself  in  Wliite  Pine,  and 
blew  out  his  brains  down  in 
'Frisco? 

Hedn't     no     savey  —  hed     Briggs. 

Thar,  Jack!  that'll  do, — quit 

that  foolin' ! 
Nothin'   to  what  she  kin  do,  when 

she's  got    her  work  cut  out 

before  her. 
Hosses  is   bosses,   you    know,   and 

likewise,  too,  jockeys  is  jock- 
eys; 
And  'tain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as 

knows  what  a  hoss  has  got  in 

him. 

Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that 

nearly  got  Flanigan's  leaders  ? 
Nasty  in  daylight,  you  bet,   and  a 

mighty    rough    ford    in    low 

water ! 
Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me 

and  the  Jedge  and  his  nevey 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in 

the    rain    and   the  water  all 

round  us ; 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and 

Rattlesnake  Creek  just  a  bilin'. 
Not  a  plank  left  in  the   dam,  and 

nary  a  bridge  on  the  river. 
I  had  the  gray,  and  the  Jedge  had 

his  roan,  and  his  nevey,  Chi- 

quita ; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest 

loosed   from   the  top  of  the 

canon. 

LicMty,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to 

the  ford,  and  Chiquita 
Buckled  right  down  to  her  work, 

and  afore  I  could  yell  to  her 

rider. 
Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,   and 

there  was  the  Jedge  and  me 

standing, 
AJid  twelve  hundred  dollars  of  hoss- 

flesh  afloat,  and  a  driftin'  to 

thunder  I 


Would  ye  b'lieve  it?  that  night  that 

hoss,  that  ar'  filly,  Chiquita, 
Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and 

stood    there,     all    quiet    and 

dripping : 
Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary 

a  buckle  of  harness. 
Just  as  she  swam  to  the  Fork,  —  that 

hoss,  that  ar'  filly,  Chiquita. 

That's  what  I  call  a  hoss!  and  — 

What  did  you  say?  —  O,  the 

nevey  ? 
Drownded,    I    reckon,  —  leastways, 

he  never  kem  back  to  deny  it. 
Ye  see,  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat, 

—  ye  couldn't  have  made  him 

a  rider ; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be 

boys,       and      hosses  —  well, 

hosses  is  hosses ! 

Bret  Haete. 


RUDOLPH  THE  HEADSMAN. 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  heads- 
man's trade, 
Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and 

blade. 
One  day  a  prisoner  Justice  had  to 

kill 
Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's 

skill. 
Bare  armed,   swart-visaged,  gaunt, 

and  shaggy-browed, 
Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above 

the  crowd. 
His  falchion  lightened  with  a  sudden 

gleam. 
As  the  pike's  armor  flashes  in  the 

stream. 
He  sheathed  his  blade ;  he  turned  as 

if  to  go ; 
The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for 

the  blow. 
"Why  strikest  not?    Perform  thy 

murderous  act," 
The  prisoner  said.     (His  voice  was 

slightly  cracked.) 
"Friend,  I  have  struck,"  the  artist 

straight  replied ; 
"  Wait  but  one  moment,  and  your- 
self decide." 
He    held    his     snuff-box,  —  "Now 

then,  if  you  please ! " 
The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a 

crashing  sneeze, 


604 


PARNASSUS. 


Off  his  head  tumbled,  —  bowled  along 

the  floor,  — 
Bounced    down     the     steps;  —  the 

prisoner  said  no  more ! 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


THE  FRIEOT)    OF    HUMANITY 
AND  THE  KNIFE-GRINDER. 

FBIEND  OF  HUMANITY. 

Needy  knife-grinder!  whither  are 

you  going? 
Rough  is  the  road;  your  wheel  is 

out  of  order. 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ;  —  your  hat 

has  got  a  hole  in  't ; 
So  have  your  breeches  I 

Weary  knife-grinder !  little  think  the 

proud  ones, 
Wlio  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the 

turnpike- 
Road,  what  hard  work  'tis  crying  all 

day,  "  Knives  and 
Scissors  to  grind  O." 

Tell  me,   knife-grinder,  how  came 

you  to  grind  knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use 

you? 
Was  it  the  squire  ?  or  parson  of  the 

parish  ? 
Or  the  attorney  ? 

Was  it  the  squire  for  killing  of  his 
game  ?  or 

Covetous  parson  for  his  tithes  dis- 
training? 

Or  roguish  lawyer  made  you  lose 
your  little 
All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 

(Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of 
Man  by  Tom  Paine?) 

Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my 
eyelids, 

Beady  to  fall  as  soon  as  you  have 
told  your 
Pitiful  story. 

KNIFE-G  KINDER. 

Story !  God  bless  you !    I  have  none 

to  tell,  sir; 
Only,  last  night,  a  drinking  at  the 

Chequers, 


This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as 
you  see,  were 
Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me 

into 
Custody;  they  took  me  before  the 

justice ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me    in   the 

parish- 
Stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

I    should    be  glad    to    drink   your 

honor's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me 

sixpence ; 
But  for  my  part,   I  never  love  to 

meddle 
With  politics,  sir. 

FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY. 

I  give  thee  sixpence !  I  will  see  thee 
damned  first,  — 

Wretch!  whom  no  sense  of  wrong 
can  rouse  to  vengeance,  — 

Sordid,    unfeeling,    reprobate,    de- 
graded, 

Spiritless  outcast ! 

[Kicks  the  knife-grinder,  overturns 
his  wheel,  and  exit  in  a  transport  of 
republican  enthusiasm  and  universal 
philanthropy.] 

George  Canning. 


PLAIN   LANGUAGE    FROM 
TRUTHFUL   JAMES. 

(table  mountain,   1870.) 

Which  I  wish  to  remark  — 
And  my  language  is  plain  — 

That  for  ways  that  are  dark. 
And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 

The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 
Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to 
explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name ; 
And  I  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply. 
But  his   smile  it  was  pensive  and 
childlike, 
As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill 
Nye. 


COMIC  AND  HUMOROUS. 


505 


It  was  August  the  third ; 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies : 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  Wil- 
liam 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 
And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand : 

It  was  euchre.     The  same 
He  did  not  understand ; 

But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 
With  the  smile  that  was  childlike 
and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve. 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 
At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve ; 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and 
bowers, 
And  the  same  with  intent  to  de- 
ceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see  — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower. 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt 
unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 
And  he  gazed  upon  me ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be? 
We  are    ruined  by  Chinese  cheap 
labor"  — 
And   he  went   for  that  heathen 
Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 
I  did  not  take  a  hand ; 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been 
hiding, 
In  the  game  "  he  did  not  under- 
stand." 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty-four  packs  — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which 
were  taper. 
What  is  frequent  in  tapers  — that's 
wax. 


Which  is  why  I  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark. 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain. 
The  heathen  Chinese  is  peculiar  — 
Which  the   same   I    am    free    to 
maintain. 

Bket  Haute. 


THE  COSMIC  EGG. 

Upon  a  rock  yet  uncreate, 

Amid  a  chaos  inchoate. 

An  uncreated  being  sate ; 

Beneath  him,  rock. 

Above  him,  cloud. 

And  the  cloud  was  rock, 

And  the  rock  was  cloud. 

The  rock    then    growing    soft    and 

warm. 
The  cloud  began  to  take  a  form, 
A  form  chaotic,  vast  and  vague, 
Which  issued  in  the  cosmic  egg. 
Then  the  Being  uncreate 
On  the  egg  did  incubate, 
And  thus  became  the  incubator ; 
And  of  the  egg  did  allegate. 
And  thus  became  the  alligator ; 
And  the  incubator  was  potentate. 
But  the  alligator  was  potentator. 

Ajstonymous. 


MIGNONETTE. 

As  I  sit  at  my  desk  by  the  window, 
when  the  garden  with  dew  is 
wet. 

On  the  morning  incense  rises  the 
breath  of  the  mignonette, 

Laden  with  tender  memories  of  thir- 
ty years  ago. 

When  she  gave  me  her  worthless 
promise,  and  we  loved  each 
other  so. 

Till  her  tough  old  worldly  mother 
let  her  maiden  charms  be  sold 

To  a  miser,  as  hard  and  yellow  as 
his  hoard  of  shining  gold. 

As  in  Central  Park  I  met  them  on 
their  cheerful  morning  ride. 

As  she  snarled  at  her  henpecked  hus- 
band who  was  crouching  by 
her  side. 


506 


PABNASSUS. 


I  thought  in  the  dust  of  the  path- 
way, *'I  have  the  hest  of  you 
yet!" 

Far  better  the  dream  of  a  fadeless 
love  ill  the  breath  of  the  mign- 
onette, 

And  little  Alice  and  Mabel,  and  the 
children  that  might  have  been. 

Come  dancing  out  on  the  paper  at  a 
twirl  of  the  magic  pen,  — 

Kot  a  horrid  boy  among  them,  but  a 
bevy  of  little  girls 

With  great  brown  eyes,  love-shining, 
'mid  a  halo  of  golden  curls. 


They  never  grow  old  or  naughty; 

and  in  them  I  fail  to  see 
The  slightest  fault  or  taint  of  sin 

which  could  have  been  charged 

to  me. 
They  are  mine,  all  mine   forever! 

No  lover  to  them  can  come, 
To  steal  away  their  loving  hearts  to 

grace  a  doubtful  home. 
And  so,  when  the  tender  evening  or 

morning  with  dew  is  wet, 
I  dream  of  my  vanished  darlings  in 

the  breath  of  the  mignonette. 
George  B.  Bartlett. 


XI. 

POETRY  OF  TERROR. 


"  There  are  points  from  which  we  can  command  our  life, 
When  the  soul  sweeps  the  Future  like  a  glass, 
And  coming  things  full  freighted  with  our  fate 
Jut  out  dark  on  the  offing  of  the  mind, "  —  Bailey  :  Festus. 


POETET  OF  TEEEOR 


tueist:r. 

He  works  in  rings,  in  magic  rings  of 
chance ; 

He  knows  that  grand  effects  oft  run 
askance, 

And  so  he  prays  to  Nature,  color- 
queen. 

He  works  in  chaoses,  —  you  are  no 
artist, 

You  medium-man  who  power  to 
write  impartest ; 

Suffice  to  know  he  loveth  Chaos  old. 

Because  than  aught  created  she's 
more  bold : 

And  so  he  worketh  ruleless,  not  to  fix, 

And  freeze  and  stiffen,  but  to  weld 
and  mix. 

That  many  elements  thus  got  together 

May  struggle  into  light.  — 

And  she  loves  possibility,  and  hence 

He  goes  far  back  into  Confusion's 
dance. 

So  the  old  Temeraire,  (ah  England ! 
long 

That  happiness  shall  live  within 
thy  song, ) 

Lets  natural  ways  rush  through  him ; 
so  may  you. 

If  you  have  brain  and  strength  and 
dare  to  do. 

Believe  me,  there  are  ways  of  paint- 
ing things 

That  are  allied  to  the  great  Morn- 
ing's wings. 

J.  J.  G.  Wilkinson. 


THE  TIGER. 

Tiger  !  Tiger !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night ; 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 


In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 
Could    twist    the    sinews    of    thine 

heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  ?  and  what  dread 

feet? 

Wliat  the  hammer?  what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
WTiat  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their 

spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He,  Who  made  the  Lamb,  make 

thee? 

Tiger !  Tiger !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 
William  Blake. 


THEA. 


lips 


some 


Leaning   with   parted 

words  she  spake 
In   solemn   tenor    and  deep   organ 

tone : 
Some  mourning    words,   which,  in 

our  feeble  tongue. 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents; 

O  how  frail 
To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early 

Gods! 

Keats. 
509 


510 


PARNASSUS. 


SONG     OF     THE     PARC^. 

IPHIGENIA. 

Within  my  ears  resounds  that  an- 
cient song,  — 

Forgotten  was  it,  and  forgotten 
gladly,  — 

Song  of  the  Parcae,  which  they  shud- 
dering sang. 

When  Tantalus  fell  from  his  golden 
seat. 

They  suffered  with  their  noble 
friend;  indignant 

Their  bosom  was,  and  terrible  their 
song. 

To  me  and  to  my  sisters,  in  our  youth, 

The  nurse  would  sing  it;  and  I 
marked  it  well. 

"The  Gods  be  your  terror, 
Ye  childi-en  of  men ! 
They  hold  the  dominion 
In  hands  everlasting, 
All  free  to  exert  it 
As  listeth  their  will. 

"  Let  him  fear  them  doubly 
Whome'er  they've  exalted! 
On  crags  and  on  cloud-piles 
The  couches  are  planted 
Around  the  gold  tables. 

"  Dissension  arises ; 
Then  tumble  the  feasters, 
Reviled  and  dishonored, 
In  gulfs  of  deep  midnight ; 
And  look  ever  vainly 
In  fetters  of  darkness 
For  judgment  that's  just. 

*'  But  they  remain  seated 

At  feasts  never  failing 

Around  the  gold  tables. 

They  stride  at  a  footstep 

From  mountain  to  mountain ; 

Through  jaws  of  abysses 

Steams  towards  them  the  breathing 

Of  suffocate  Titans, 

Like  offerings  of  incense, 

A  light-rising  vapor. 

"  They  turn  —  the  proud  masters  — 

From  whole  generations 

The  eye  of  their  blessing ; 

Nor  will  in  the  children. 

The  once  well-beloved, 

Still  eloquent  features 

Of  ancestor  see." 


So  sang  the  dark  sisters ; 
The  old  exile  heareth 
That  terrible  music 
111  caverns  of  darkness,  — 
Remembereth  his  children, 
And  shaketh  his  head. 

Goethe  :  Trans,  by  Frothingham. 


CRIME. 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful 
thing 

And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 

Like    a    phantasma,    or  a    hideous 
dream : 

The  genius  and  the  mortal  instru- 
ments 

Are  then  in  council ;  and  the  state 
of  man, 

Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffers  then 

The  nature  of  an  insurrection. 

Shakspeaee  :  Julius  Coesar. 

To  beguile  the  time, 
Look  like  the  time. 

Shakspeake:  Macbeth. 


REMORSE. 

Methought   I  heard  a  voice  cry, 

"  Sleej)  no  more  ! 
Macbeth  doth  murder  sleep,''  —  the 

innocent  sleep, 
Sleep    that    knits    up    the    ravelled 

sleeve  of  care. 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore 

labor's  bath. 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's 

second  course. 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast, — 
Still  it  cried,  "  Sleep  no  more  !  "  to 

all  the  house : 
"  Glamis  hath  murdered  sleep;    and 

therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more,  Macbeth  shall 

sleep  no  more  !  " 

Shakspeake:  Macbeth. 

Macbeth 
Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers 

above 
Put  on  their  instruments. 

When  we  in  our  viciousness  grow 

hard, 
O  misery  on'tl  the  wise  gods  seal  our 

eyes; 


POETRY   OF  TEREOE. 


611 


In    our  own  filth,   drop    our  clear 

judgments ;  make  us 
Adore  our  errors,  laugh  at  us,  while 

we  strut 
To  our  confusion. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

I  SEE  men's  judgments  are 
A    parcel    of    their    fortunes;    and 

things  outward 
To  draw  the  inward  quality  after 

them 
To  suffer  all  alike. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra,  iii.  sc.  2. 

The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleas- 
ant vices 
Make  instruments  to  scourge  us. 

K.  Lear. 

Merciful  Heaven ! 

Thou  rather,   with  thy  sharp    and 

sulphurous  bolt 
Split' St  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled 

oak. 
Than    the    soft    myrtle ;  —  O,    but 

man,  proud  man ! 
Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority, 
Most  ignorant  of    what   he's    most 

assured, 
His  glassy  essence,  —  like  an  angry 

ape, 
Plays   such  fantastic  tricks    before 

high  heaven, 
As  make  the  angels  weep. 

Measure  for  Measure. 


CLARENCE'S  DREAM. 

Clarence.  —  O,   I    have    passed   a 

miserable  night. 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly 

sights. 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful 

man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a 

night, 
Though    'twere  to  buy  a  world  of 

happy  days ; 
So    full    of    dismal  terror  was    the 

time. 
Brakenbury.  —  What    was    your 

dream,  my  lord?  I  pray  you, 

tell  me. 
Clar.  —  Methought  that  I  had  bro- 
ken from  the  Tower, 


And  was  embarked  to  cross  to  Bur- 
gundy ; 

And  in  my  company,   my  brother 
Gloster : 

Who  from  my  cabin,  tempted  me  to 
walk 

Upon  the  hatches :  thence  we  looked 
toward  England, 

And  cited    up    a   thousand    heavy 
times. 

During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lan- 
caster 

That  had  befallen  us.    As  we  paced 
along 

Upon    the    giddy    footing    of    the 
hatches, 

Methought  that  Gloster  stumbled; 
and,  in  falling, 

Struck  me,  that  thought  to  stay  him, 
overboard. 

Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 

O  heaven !  methought  what  pain  it 
was  to  drown  ! 

What  dreadful    noise  of    water  in 
mine  ears ! 

What  sights   of  ugly  death  within 
mine  eyes ! 

Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful 
wrecks ; 

A  thousand  men,  that  fishes  gnawed 
upon ; 

Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps 
of  pearl, 

Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 
All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the 
sea. 

Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls;  and 
in  those  holes 

Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there 
were  crept 

(As  'twere  in  scorn  of  eyes)  reflect- 
ing gems. 

That  wooed  the  slimy  bottom  of  the 
deep, 

And  mocked  the  dead  bones  that  lay 
scattered  by. 
Brak.  —  Had  you  such  leisure  in 
the  time  of  death 

To  gaze  upon  these  secrets  of  the 
deep? 
Clar.  —  Methought    I    had :    and 
often  did  I  strive 

To  yield  the  ghost :  but  still  the  en- 
vious flood 

Kept  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let 
it  forth 

To  seek  the  empty,  vast,  and  wan- 
dering air ; 


612 


PAENASSUS. 


But  smothered  it  within  my  panting 

bulk, 
Which   almost  burst  to  belch  it  in 

the  sea. 
Brak.  —  Awaked  you  not  with  this 

sore  agony? 
Clar.  —  O,   no,    my  dream    was 

lengthened  after  life, 
O,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul ! 
I  passed,  methought,  the  melancholy 

flood, 
With    that    grim    ferryman   which 

poets  write  of. 
Unto    the     kingdom    of    perpetual 

night. 
The  first  that  there  did  greet  my 

stranger  soul, 
Was    my    great    father-in-law,    re- 
nowned Warwick, 
Who  cried  aloud,  —  "What  scourge 

for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false 

Clarence?" 
And  so  he  vanished :  then  came  wan- 
dering by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright 

hair 
Dabbled  in  blood;  and  he  shrieked 

out  aloud,  — 
"Clarence  is  come, — false,  fleeting, 

perjured  Clarence,  — 
That  stabbed   me  in    the    field  by 

Tewksbury ;  — 
Seize  on  him.  Furies,  take  him  to 

your  torments! " 
With  that,  methought,  a  legion  of 

foul  fiends 
Environed  me,  and  howled  in  mine 

ears 
Such  hideous  cries,  that  with  the 

very  noise, 
J  trembling  waked,  and,  for  a  season 

after. 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in 

hell. 
Such  terrible  impression  made  my 

dream. 

Shakspeare. 


HESITATION. 

Lady  Macbeth.  —  Yet  do  I  fear  thy 

nature ; 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human 

kindness, 
To   catch    the    nearest  way:    thou 

wouldst  be  great ; 


Art  not  without  ambition ;  but  with- 
out 
The  illness  should  attend  it.     What 

thou  wouldst  highly. 
That  wouldst  thou  holily;  wouldst 

not  play  false, 
And    yet     wouldst    wrongly    win; 

thou'dst  liave,  great  Glamis, 
That  which  cries,  Thus  thou  must 

do,  if  thou  have  it ; 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost 

fear  to  do. 
Than  wishest    should    be    undone. 

Hie  thee  hither. 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine 

ear; 
And  chastise  with  the  valor  of  my 

tongue 
All    that    impedes    thee    from    the 

golden  round. 
Which  fate  and    metaphysical    aid 

doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crowned  withal. 

Shakspeare:  Macbeth. 

This  army 
Led  by  a  delicate  and  tender  prince, 
Wliose  spirit,  with  divine  ambition 

puffed, 
Makes  mouths  at  the  invisible  event, 
Exposing  what  is  mortal  and  unsure 
To  all  that  fortune,  death,  and  dan- 
ger dare. 
Even  for  an  egg-shell. 

Shakspeare:  Hamlet. 


THE  CORSAIE. 

There  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his 

sneer, 
That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage 

and  fear; 
And  where   his    frown    of    hatred 

darkly  fell, 
Hope  withering  fled,  —  and   Mercy 

sighed  farewell ! 

Byron. 


MANFEED. 

INCANTATION. 

When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave, 
And  the  glow-worm  in  the  grass, 

And  the  meteor  on  the  grave, 
And  the  wisp  on  the  morass ; 


POETRY   OF  TERROR. 


513 


When  the  falling  stars  are  shooting, 
And  the  answered  owls  are  hooting, 
And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill, 
Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine, 
With  a  power  and  with  a  sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep, 
Yet  thy  spirit  shall  not  sleep ; 
There  are    shades  which  will    not 

vanish. 
There  are  thoughts  thou  canst  not 

banish ; 
By  a  power  to  thee  unknown, 
Thou  canst  never  be  alone ; 
Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a  shroud, 
Thou  art  gathered  in  a  cloud ; 
And  forever  shalt  thou  dwell 
In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  see' St  me  not  pass  by, 
Thou  shalt  feel  me  with  thine  eye 
As  a  thing  that,  though  unseen. 
Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been ; 
And  when  in  that  secret  dread 
Thou  hast  turned  around  thy  head ; 
Thou  shalt  marvel  I  am  not 
As  thy  shadow  on  the  spot. 
And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel 
Shall  be  what  thou  must  conceal. 

And  a  magic  voice  and  verse 

Hath  baptized  thee  with  a  curse ; 

And  a  spirit  of  the  air 

Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare; 

In  the  wind  there  is  a  voice 

Shall  forbid  thee  to  rejoice; 

And  to  thee  shall  night  deny 

All  the  quiet  of  her  sky; 

And  the  day  shall  have  a  sun, 

Which  shall  make  thee  wish  it  done. 

From  thy  false  tears  I  did  distil 
An  essence  which  hath  strength  to 

kill; 
From  thy  own    heart    I  then    did 

wring 
The    black    blood   in   its    blackest 

spring; 
From  thy  own  smile  I  snatched  the 

snake, 
For  there  it  coiled  as  in  a  brake ; 
From  thy  own  lip  I  drew  the  chann 
Which  gave  all  these  their  chiefest 

harm; 
In  proving  every  poison  known, 
I  found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 


And  on  thy  head  I  pour  the  vial 

Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial ; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die. 

Shall  be  in  thy  destiny ; 

Though  thy  death  shall  still  seem 

near 
To  thy  wish,  but  as  a  fear ; 
Lo!    the   spell    now  works    around 

thee. 
And  the  clankless  chain  hath  bound 

thee; 
O'er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 
Hath  the  word  been  passed — .now 

wither ! 

Bybon. 


MANFRED. 

The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon 

me  — 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baf- 
fle me  — 
The  remedy   I  recked  of   tortured 

me; 
I  lean  no  more  on  superhuman  aid, 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and 

for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulfed  in 

darkness. 
It  is  not  of  my  search.  —  My  mother 

earth ! 
And  thou,  fresh  breaking  day,  and 

you,  ye  mountains. 
Why  are  ye  beautiful  ?  I  cannot  love 

ye. 

And  thou,  the  bright   eye  of   the 

universe. 
That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight,  —  thou  shinest  not  on 

my  heart. 
And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  ex- 
treme edge 
I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink 

beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to 

shrubs 
In  dizziness  of    distance;  when  a 

leap, 
A  stir,   a    motion,   even  a  breath, 

would  bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's 

bed 
To  rest   forever,  —  wherefore  do  I 

pause  ? 
I  feel  the  impulse — yet  I  do  not 

plunge ; 
I  see  the  peril  —  yet  do  not  recede ; 


614 


PARNASSUS. 


And  my  brain  reels  —  and  yet  my 
foot  is  firm : 

There  is  a  power  upon  me  which 
withholds, 

And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live ; 

If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 

This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 

My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have 
ceased 

To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself,  — 

The  last  infirmity  of  evil.     Aye, 

Thou    winged    and    cloud-cleaving 
.    minister, 

[An  eagle  passes.] 

Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into 
heaven, 

Well  mayst  thou  swoop  so  near  me ; 
—  I  should  be 

Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets ; 
thou  art  gone 

Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee ; 
but  thine 

Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or 
above. 

With  a  pervading  vision.  —  Beauti- 
ful! 

How   beautiful    is    all    this   visible 
world ! 

How  glorious  in  its  action  and  it- 
self— 

But  we,   who    name  ourselves    its 
sovereigns,  we. 

Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 

To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mixed  es- 
sence make 

A    conflict    of  its    elements,    and 
breathe 

The  breath  of  degradation  and  of 
pride. 

Contending  with  low  wants  and  lof- 
ty will 

Till  our  mortality  predominates. 

And  men  are  —  what  they  name  not 
to  themselves. 

And  trust  not  to  each  other.     Hark ! 
the  note, 

[The  shephercVs  pipe  in  the  distance 
is  heard.  ] 

The  natural  music  of  the  mountain 
reed, — 

For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 

A  pastoral  fable,  —  pipes  in  the  lib- 
eral air, 

Mixed  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the 
sauntering  herd ; 


My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes.  — 
Oh  that  I  were 

The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 

A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 

A  bodiless  enjoyment,  —  born  and 
dying 

With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me ! 

Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice ! 

Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws 
down 

In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come 
and  crush  me ! 

I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath. 

Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict ;  but 
ye  pass. 

And  only  fall  on  things  that  still 
would  live ; 

On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or 
the  hut 

And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 

The  mists  boil  up  around  the  gla- 
ciers; clouds 

Kise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white 
and  sulphury. 

Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of 
deep  hell. 

Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  liv- 
ing shore, 

Heaped  with  the  damned  like  peb- 
bles. ^- 1  am  giddy. 

Byron. 


THE  APPARITION. 

I  SEE  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise 
Like   an  infernal  god  from  out  the 

earth ; 
His  face  wrapt  in  a  mantle,  and  his 

form 
Robed    as  with    angry   clouds;   he 

stands  between 
Thyself  and  me  —  but  I  do  fear  him 

not. 

Why  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou 

on  him  ? 
Ah!  he  unveils  his  aspect;  on  his 

brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven ;  from 

his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell. 
Avaunt ! 

Bybon. 


xn.  < 

ORACLES  AND   COUNSELS. 

GOOD   COUNSEL.  — SUPREME  HOUES. 


*'  For  words  must  sparks  be  of  those  fires  they  strike."  —  Lokd  Brookb. 


OEAOLES  AlfD  OOUE'SELS. 


There  is  a  mystery  in  the  soul  of 
state, 

Which  hath  an  operation  more  di- 
vine 

Than  breath  or  pen  can  give  expres- 
sion to. 

Shakspeaee. 

There   is    a  history  in  all  men's 

lives, 
Figuring  the  nature  of   the    times 

deceased ; 
The  which    observed    a  man   may 

prophesy, 
With  a  near  aim  of  the  main  chance 

of  things 
As  yet  not  come  to  life,  which  in 

their  seeds, 
And  weak  beginnings,  lie  intreas- 

ured. 

Shaxspeajse. 


OPPORTIINITY. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on 

to  fortune ; 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows,  and  in  mis- 
eries. 
Shakspeare  :  Julius  Ccesar. 

KNOwma  the  Heart  of  Man  is  set  to 

be 
The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the 

which 
These  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll;  where  all  the  aspects  of 

misery 
Predominate;  whose  strong  effects 

are  such 
As  he  must  bear,  being  helpless  to 

redress : 


And  that,  unless  above  himself  he 

can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is 

man! 

Daniel. 


The  recluse  Hermit  ofttimes  more 
doth  know 

Of  the  world's  inmost  wheels,  than 
worldlings  can ; 

As  man  is  of  the  world,  the  Heart  of 
man 

Is  an  epitome  of  God's  great  book 

Of  creatures,  and  men  need  no  far- 
ther look. 

Donne. 

O  HOW  feeble  is  man's  power, 

That,  if  good  fortune  fall, 
Cannot  add  another  hour, 

Nor  a  lost  hour  recall ; 
But,  come  bad  chance. 

And  we  join  to  it  our  strength, 
And  we  teach  it  art  and  length, 

Itself  o'er  us  to  advance. 

Donne. 

If  men  be  worlds,  there  is  in  every 

one 
Something  to  answer  in  proportion 
All  the  world's  riches:  and  in  good 

men  this 
Virtue  our  form's   form,  and    our 

soul's  soul  is. 

DONNB. 


BEWARE. 

Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  charm- 
ing, 

Sit  thou  still  when  kings  are  arm- 
ing, 

517 


618 


PARNASSUS. 


Taste  not  when  the  wine-cup  glis- 
tens, 
Speak  not  when  the  people  listens, 
Stop  thine  ear  against  the  singer, 
From  the  red  gold  keep  thy  finger, 
Vacant  heart,  and  hand,  and  eye, 
Easy  live  and  quiet  die. 

Scott. 


SATURN. 

So  Saturn,  as  he  walked  into  the 

midst. 
Felt  faint,  and  would   have    sunk 

among  the  rest. 
But  that  he  met  Enceladus's  eye, 
Whose  mightiness,  and  awe  of  him, 

at  once 
Came  like  an  inspiration. 

Keats. 


GOOD  HEART. 

It's  no  in  titles  or  in  rank; 

It's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank. 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 
It's  no  in  makin'  muckle  mair; 
It's  no  in  books;  it's  no  in  lear 

To  make  us  truly  blest : 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 
And  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 
But  never  can  be  blest : 
Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures, 
Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 
The  heart  ay's  the  part  ay. 
That    makes    us    right   or 
wrang, 

BUBNS. 


FAITH. 

Better  trust  all,  and  be  deceived, 

And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiv- 
ing, 

Than  doubt  one  heart  that  if  be- 
lieved 

Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true 
believing. 

Oh !  in  this  mocking  world  too  fast 
The    doubting   fiend  o'ertakes  our 

youth ; 
Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 
Than  lose  the  blersed  hope  of  truth. 
Mrs.  Kemble. 


THE  NOBLY  BORN, 

Who  counts  himself  as  nobly  born 

Is  noble  in  despite  of  place, 
And  honors  are  but  brands  to  one 
Who  wears  them  not  with  nature's 
grace. 

The  prince  may  sit  with  clown  or 
churl, 

Norfeel  himself  disgraced  thereby ; 
But  he  who  has  but  small  esteem 

Husbands  that  little  carefully. 

Then,  be  thou  peasant,  be  thou  peer, 
Count  it  still  more  thou  art  thine 
own; 

Stand  on  a  larger  heraldry 
Than  that  of  nation  or  of  zone. 

What  though  not  bid  to  knightly 
halls  ? 
Those  halls  have  missed  a  courtly 
guest; 
That  mansion  is  not  privileged. 
Which  is  not  open  to  the  best. 

Give  honor  due  when  custom  asks, 
Nor  wrangle  for  this  lesser  claim ; 

It  is  not  to  be  destitute. 
To  have  the    thing  without  the 
name. 

Then  dost  thou  come  of  gentle  blood, 
Disgrace  not  thy  good  company ; 

If  lowly  born,  so  bear  thyself 
That  gentle  blood  may  come  of 
thee. 

Strive  not  with  pain  to  scale  the 
height 
Of  some  fair  garden's  petty  wall. 
But  climb  the  open  mountain  side. 
Whose  summit  rises  over  all. 

E.  S.  H. 


ULYSSES  AND  ACHILLES. 

Ulysses.  —Time  hath,  my  lord,  a 
wallet  at  his  back. 

Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion, 

A  great-sized  monster  of  ingrati- 
tudes : 

Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past: 
which  are  devoured 

As  fast  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as 
soon 


ORACLES  AND  COUNSELS. 


519 


As    done:   Perseverance,    dear   my 

lord, 
Keeps  honor  bright :  to  have  done  is 

to  hang 
Quite  out  of   fashion,  like  a  rusty- 
mail 
In  monumental  mockery.     Take  the 

instant  way; 
For  honor  travels  in  a  strait  so  nar- 
row, 
Where  one  but  goes  abreast:  keep 

then  the  path ; 
For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons, 
That  one  by  one  pursue :  if  you  give 

way. 
Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forth- 
right. 
Like  to  an  entered  tide  they  all  rush 

by, 
And  leave  you  hindmost ;  — 
Or,  like  a  gallant  horse  fallen  in  first 

rank, 
Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject 

rear, 
O'er-run    and    trampled    on:    then 

what  they  do  in  present, 
Though  less  than  yours  in  past,  must 

o'ertop  yours: 
For  Time  is  like  a  fashionable  host, 
That    slightly    shakes    his    parting 

guest  by  the  hand ; 
And  with  his  arms  outstretched,  as 

he  would  fly, 
Grasps  in  the  comer :  Welcome  ever 

smiles. 
And  farewell  goes  out  sighing.     O, 

let  not  virtue  seek 
Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was ; 
For  beauty,  wit, 
High  birth,  vigor  of  bone,  desert  in 

service, 
Love,  friendship,  charity,  are  sub- 
jects all 
To  envious  and  calumniating  Time. 
One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole 

world  kiuj  — 
That  all,  with  one  consent,  praise 

new-born  gawds, 
Though  they  are  made  and  moulded 

of  things  past ; 
And  give  to  dust,  that  is  a  little  gilt, 
More  laud  than  gilt  o'er-dusted. 
The  present  eye  praises  the  present 

object : 
Then  marvel  not,  thou  great  and 

complete  man, 
That  all  the  Greeks  begin  to  worship 

Ajax; 


Since  things  in  motion  sooner  catch 

the  eye, 
Than  what  not  stirs.     The  cry  went 

once  on  thee 
And  still  it  might ;  and  yet  it  may 

again, 
If  thou  wouldst  not  entomb  thyself 

alive, 
And  case  thy  reputation  in  thy  tent ; 
Whose  glorious  deeds,  but  in  these 

fields  of  late, 
Made  emulous  missions  'mongst  the 

gods  themselves, 
And  drave  great  Mars  to  faction. 

Shakspeaee. 


ANTONY  AND  THE    SOOTH- 
SAYER. 

Antonij.  —  Say  to  me. 
Whose  fortunes   shall  rise  higher; 

Caesar's,  or  mine? 
Soothsayer.  —  Caesar's. 
Therefore,  O  Antony,  stay  not  by 

his  side : 
Thy  daemon,  that's  thy  spirit  which 

keeps  thee,  is 
Noble,  courageous,  high,  unmatcha- 

ble, 
Where  Caesar's  is  not;  but  near  him, 

thy  angel 
Becomes    a    Fear,    as    being    o'er- 

powered;  therefore 
Make  space  enough  between  you. 
Ant.  — Speak  this  no  more. 
Soothsayer.  —  To   none  but  thee ; 

no  more,  but  when  to  thee. 
If  thou  dost  play  with  him  at  any 

game, 
Thou  art  sure  to  lose ;  and  of  that 

natural  luck. 
He  beats  thee  'gainst  the  odds ;  thy 

lustre  thickens, 
Wlien  he  shines  by :  I  say  again,  thy 

spirit 
Is  all  afraid  to  govern  thee  near  him ; 
But,  he  away,  'tis  noble. 
Ant.  —  Get  thee  gone : 
Say  to  Ventidius,  I  would  speak  with 

him: 

[Exit  Soothsayer.] 
He  shall  to  Parthia.  —  Be  it  art,  or 

hap. 
He  hath  spoken  true :  the  very  dice 

obey  him ; 
And,  in  our  sports,  my  better  cun- 
ning faints 


520 


PABNASSUS. 


Under  his  chance :  if  we  draw  lots, 

he  speeds : 
His  cocks  do  win  the  battles  still  of 
mine, 
it  is 

quails  ever 
Beat  mine,  inhooped  at  odds. 

Shakspeake. 


MOTHER'S  BLESSING. 

Be  thou  blest,  Bertram !  and  succeed 

thy  father 
In  manners,  as  in  shape !  thy  blood, 

and  virtue, 
Contend  for  empire  in  thee ;  and  thy 

goodness 
Share  with  thy  birthright!      Love 

all ;  trust  a  few : 
Do  wrong  to  none :  be  able  for  thine 

enemy 
Rather  in  power,  than  use ;  and  keep 

thy  friend 
Under  thy  own  life's  key :  be  checked 

for  silence 
But  never  taxed  for  speech.     What 

heaven  more  will, 
That    thee    may    furnish,   and    my 

prayers  pluck  down. 
Fall  on  thy  head ! 

Shakspeare : 
AlVs  Well  that  Ends  Well. 


TRUE  DIGNITY. 

If  thou  be  one  whose  heart  the  holy 
forms 

Of  young  imagination  have  kept 
pure, 

Stranger !  henceforth  be  warned ;  and 
know  that  pride, 

Howe'er  disguised  in  its  own  majes- 
ty, 

Is  littleness ;  that  he  who  feels  con- 
tempt 

For  any  living  thing  hath  faculties 

Which  he  has  never  used:  that 
thought  with  him 

Is  in  its  infancy.  The  man  whose 
eye 

Is  ever  on  himself  doth  look  on  one 

The  least  of  Nature's  works,  one 
who  might  move 

The  wise  man  to  that  scorn  which 
wisdom  holds 


Unlawful  ever.     O  be  wiser.  Thou ! 
Instructed  that  true  knowledge  leads 

to  love ; 
True  dignity  abides  with  him  alone 
Who,  in  the  silent  hour  of  inward 

thought, 
Can  still    suspect,  and    still  revere 

himself, 
In  lowliness  of  heart. 

WOBDSWOBTH. 


EACH  AND  ALL. 

Heaven  doth  with  us  as  we  with 
torches  do, 

Not  light  them  for  themselves ;  for  if 
our  virtues 

Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all 
alike 

As  if  we  had  them  not.     Spirits  are 
not  finely  touched 

But  to  fine  issues:  nor  Nature  never 
lends 

The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excel- 
lence, 

But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  deter- 
mines 

Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor. 

Both  thanks  and  use. 

Shakspeaee  : 
Measure  for  Measure. 


The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook 
Unless  the   deed   go  with  it:  from 

this  moment, 
The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall 

be 
The  firstlings  of  my  hand. 

Shakspeare:  Macbeth. 


COURAGE. 

To  be  furious 
Is  to  be  frighted  out  of  fear ;  and,  in 

that  mood, 
The  dove  will  peck  the  ostrich ;  and 

I  see  still 
A  diminution  in  our  captain's  brain 
Restores    his    heart.      When    valor 

preys  on  reason. 
It  eats  the  sword  it  fights  with. 
Shakspeare  : 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 


ORACLES   AND  COUNSELS. 


521 


Enobarbus. — Mine  honesty  and  I 
begin  to  square 
The  loyalty,  well  held  to  fools,  does 

make 
Our  faith  mere  folly ; 

Yet,  he  that  can  endure 
To  follow  with  allegiance   a  fallen 

lord. 
Does  conquer  him  that  did  his  mas- 
ter conquer, 
And  earns  a  place  in  the  story. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 


CLEOPATRA'S  RESOLUTION. 

Iras.  —  Royal  Egypt !  Empress, 
Cleopatra.  —  No  more,  but  e'en  a 

woman;  and  commanded 
By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid 

that  milks. 
And  does  the  meanest  chores.     It 

were  for  me 
To  throw  my  sceptre  at  the  injurious 

gods. 
To  tell  them  that  this  world  did  equal 

theirs, 
Till  they  had  stolen  our  jewel. 
Then  is  it  sin 
To  rush  into  the  secret    house  of 

death 
Ere  death  dare  come  to  us  ? 
Our  lamp  is  spent,  it's  out.     Good 

sirs,  take  heart : 
We'll  bury  him:   and   then,  what's 

brave,  what's  noble, 
Let's  do   it  after  the    high  Roman 

fashion, 
And  make  death  proud  to  take  us. 

Come  away, 
The  case  of  that  huge  Spirit  now  is 

cold. 

My  desolation  does  begin  to  make 

A  better  life.  'Tis  paltiy  to  be  Cie- 
sar; 

Not  being  Fortune,  he's  but  For- 
tune's knave, 

A  minister  of  her  will.  And  it  is 
great 

To  do  that  thing  that  ends  all  other 
deeds. 

Which  shackles  accidents,  and  bolts 
up  change; 

Which  sleeps,  and  never  palates  more 
the  dung, 

The  beggar's  nurse  and  Caesar's. 


FIRMNESS. 

We  must  not  stint 
Our  necessary  actions  in  the  fear 
To  cope  malicious  censurers ;  which 

ever, 
As  ravenous  fishes,  do  a  vessel  follow 
That  is  new  trimmed ;  but  benefit  no 

farther 
Than  vainly  longing.     What  we  oft 

do  best, 
Bysick  interpreters,  once  weak  ones,  is 
Not    ours,    or   not    allowed;    what 

worse,  as  oft, 
Hitting  a  grosser  quality,  is  cried  up 
For  our  best  act.     If  we  shall  stand 

still, 
In  fear  our  motion  will  be  mocked  or 

carped  at, 
We  should  take  root  here  where  we 

sit,  or  sit 
State  statues  only. 

Shakspeare. 


GUIDANCE. 

Rashly,  — 

And  praised  be  rashness  for  it.  — Let 

us  know 
Our  indiscretion  sometime  serves  us 

well, 
When  our  deep  plots  do  pall:   and 

that  should  teach  us 
There's  a  Divinity  that  shapes  our 

ends, 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will. 

Shakspeare:  Hamlet. 


TRUST. 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain 
Revolve  in  one  sure  track, 
If  Freedom,  set,  will  rise  again, 
And  Virtue  flown,  come  back ; 
Woe  to  the  purblind  crew  who  fill 
The  heart  with  each  day's  care. 
Nor  gain  from  Past  or  Future,  skill 
To  bear  and  to  forbear. 

Wordsworth. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

Our  revels  now  are  ended :  these  our 

actors. 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits, 
.and 


522 


PAENASSUS. 


Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air ; 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this 
vision, 

The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gor- 
geous palaces, 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe 
itself, 

Tea,  all  which  it  inherits,  shall  dis- 
solve. 


And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant 

faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind :  we  are  such 

stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little 

life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

Tempest,  act.  iv.  sc.  4. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


IISTDEX   OF  FIEST  L,I]S"ES. 


A  barking  sound  the  shepherd  hears    . 
Abou  Ben  Adbem,  may  bis  tribe  increase ! 
A  famous  man  is  Robin  Hood 
Again  returned  tlie  scenes  of  youth  . 

Ah  Ben 

Ah,  County  Guy!  the  liour is  nigh     . 

Ah,  God,  for  a  man  with  heart,  head,  hand 

Ah,  sunflower!  weary  of  time    . 

A  king  lived  long  ago 

Alas  for  them !  their  day  is  o'er  . 

Alas!  what  boots  the  long,  laborious  quest 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning     . 

All  the  world's  a  stage 

All  things  tliat  are 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights  . 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where 

A  man  prepared  against  all  ills  to  come 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell 

Amazed,  confused,  its  fate  unknown    . 

A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel 

An  ancient  story  I'll  tell  you  anon 

And  also,  beau  sire,  of  other  things  . 

And  here  the  hermit  sat  and  told  his  beads 

And  I  shall  sleep,  and  on  thy  side 

And  passing  here  through  evening  dew    . 

And  sooth  to  say,  yon  vocal  grove 

And  whither  would  you  lead  me? 

An  empty  sky,  a  world  of  heather 

Api)eared  the  princess  with  that  merry  child 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting     . 

A  shadie  grove  not  far  away  they  spied    . 

As  heaven  and  earth  are  fairer  "  . 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night  .    . 

As  I  sit  at  my  desk  by  the  window 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower 

As  it  befell 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 

Ask  ye  me  why  I  send  you  here?  . 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal 

As  Memnon's  marble  harp,  renowned  of  old 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve    .... 

As  unto  blowing  roses  summer  dews    . 

As  vonce  I  valked  by  a  dismal  svamp 

A  sweet,  attractive  kind  of  grace  . 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay    . 

At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  aerial  bow 

At  the  approach  of  extreme  peril  . 

At  the  King's  gate  the  subtle  noon    . 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints  whose 

A  voice  by  the  cedar-tree     .... 

Awake,  awake,  mv  lyre  .... 

Away,  ye  gay  landscapes      .... 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid 


Wordsworth 

Leigh  Hunt 

Wordsworth 

Scott    . 

Herrick  . 

Scott    . 

Tennyson 

W.  Blake    . 

Browning 

Charles  Sprague 

Wordsworth 

Scott     . 

Shakspeare  . 

Shakspeare 

Coleridge 

Lowell 

Herrick  . 

W.  Allingham  . 

Swift 

Longfellow 

Percy's  Reuques 

Chaucer 

Channing 

Bryant 

William  Barnes 

Wordsworth 

Scott    . 

Jean  Inge low 

Henry  Taylor  . 

Longfellow 

Spenser 

Keats 

Robert  Southwell 

G,  B.  Bartlett 

Burns  . 

Wordsworth 

R.  Barnefield  . 

Herrick  . 

Wordsworth    . 

Akenside 

A.  H.  Clough     . 

D.  A.  Wasson 

H.  H.  Brownell 

Matthew  Roydon 

Herrick 

Longfellow  . 

Campbell    . 

Coleridge  (Trans. 

H.  H.      .       . 


bones    Milton    . 

Tennyson   . 
Cowley    . 
Byron . 
Scott 

525 


Faob 

326 

158 

274 

122 

270 

442 

198 

29 

282 

225 

221 

363 

151 

40 

73 

237 

198 

158 

502 

224 

352 

96 

7 

25 

75 

34 

349 

80 

70 

149 

30 

143 

191 

505 

219 

17 

35 

32 

471 


502 
268 

87 
239 

45 
195 
202 
195 

72 
129 

26 
448 


626 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea     . 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go,  we  know  not  where 

Ay !  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down     . 

Bankrupt,  our  pockets  inside  out 

Beautiful !  sir,  you  may  say  so 

Beaver  roai-s  lioarse  with  melting  snows  . 

Before  the  starry  threshold  of  Jove's  court 

Before  thy  stem,  smooth  seas  were  curled 

Behold  a  silly  tender  babe      .... 

Being  asked  by  an  intimate  party 

Beneath  an  Indian  palm,  a  girl 

Below  the  bottom  of  the  great  abyss  . 

Be  thou  blest,  Bertram !  and  succeed  thy  father 

Better  trust  all,  and  be  deceived 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing     . 

Birdie,  birdie,  will  you,  pet     .... 

Blackened  and  bleeding,  helpless,  panting,  prone 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 

Blue  crystal  vault  and  elemental  tires 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen 

Brave  Schill,  by  death  delivered 

Break,  Fantasy,  from  thy  cave  of  cloud 

Breathe,  trumpets,  breathe  slow  notes     . 

Bright  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  bride   . 

But  ail  our  praises,  why  should  lords  engross 

But  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-Ben  . 

But  for  ye  speken  of  such  gentilesse     . 

But  I  wol  turn  againe  to  Ariadne 

But  souls  that  of  his  own  good  life  partake 

By  broad  Potomac's  silent  shore 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain    .... 


Call  in  the  messengers  sent  from  the  Dauphin 

Call  me  no  more 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
Captain  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  anns. 
Child  Dyring  has  ridden  him  vip  under  oe 
Clothed  with  state,  and  girt  with  might 
Come  away,  come  away,  death   . 
Come  into  the  garden.  Maud  . 
Come  on,  come  on,  and  where  you  go 
Come  on,  sir,  here's  the  place:  stand  still 
Come  pitie  us,  all  ye  who  see 

Come  seehng  night 

Con\e,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged 
Come  tbou  who  art  the  wine  and  wit    . 
Come  to  Lic()0 !  the  sun  is  riding 
Come  to  the  river's  reedy  shore 
Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little 
Consolers  of  the  solitary  hours 


Dark  fell  the  night,  the  watch  was  set 

Dear  lady,  I  a  little  fear  . 

Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die     . 

Dear  my  friend  and  fellow-student 

Deep  in  the  waves  is  a  coral  grove     . 

J)inas  Emlinn,  lament,  for  the  moment  is  nigh 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 

Each  care-worn  face  is  but  a  book 
Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky 
Ever  a  current  of  sadness  deep 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime     . 

Faire  Daffodills,  we  weep  to  see    . 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree     . 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  forever 

Farewell,  ye  lofty  spires 

Farewell,  farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter 


A.  Cunningham 
Shakspeake  . 
O.  W.  Holmes    . 

Holmes 

Bret  Harte  . 

Lowell, 

Milton    . 

Punch  . 

Robert  Southwell 

Bret  Hakte 

MiLNES      . 

Richard  Crashaw 

Shaksfeare 

Mrs.  Kemble     . 

Longfellow  . 

Shakspeare> 

W.  Allingham 

Bret  Harte 

Shakspeare  . 

Sir  W.  Jones  (Trans 

James  Hogg  . 

Wordsworth 

Ben  Jonson  . 

George  Lunt 

Willis     . 

Tennvson    . 

Hamilton 

Pope     . 

Mickle    . 

Burns   . 

Chaucer . 

Chaucer 

Henry  More 

Anonymous 

Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander 

Shakspeare 
Herrick  . 


Tennyson    . 

Milton    . 

Scott    . 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

Shakspeare 

Tennyson 

Ben  Jonson 

Shakspeare  . 

Herrick 

Shakspeare  . 

S.  Ferguson 

Herrick  . 

Anonymous 

F.  B.  Sanborn 

Tennyson    . 

S.  G.  W.    .       . 


J.  Sterling 

Daniel  Webster 

Tennyson    . 

Mrs.  Browning 

J.  G.  Percival  . 

Scott 

Ben  Jonson 


Jones  Very  . 
Wordsworth 
Mrs.  Hemans 

T.  Moore     . 

Herrick  . 

Herrick 

Byron 

E.  B.  Emerson 

T.  Moore 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


527 


Far  have  I  clambered  in  my  mind 

Fear  no  more  the  lieat  o'  the  sun 

Fleet  the  Tartar's  reinless  steed    . 

Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow  . 

Full  little  knowest  thou,  that  hast  not  tried 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 


Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 

Give  me  a  spirit  that  on  life's  rough  sea  . 

Give  me  my  cup,  but  from  the  Thespian  well 

Give  me  my  scallop's  shell  of  quiet    . 

Give  place,  ye  ladies,  and  begone 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way  . 

God  of  science  and  of  light 

Goe,  happy  rose,  and  interwove 

Goldilocks  sat  on  the  grass     . 

Go,  lovely  rose       .... 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest 

Grandmother's  mother;  her  age  ] 

Great  God,  greater  than  greatest 

Great  Ocean !  strongest  of  Creation's  sons 

Gude  Lord  Graeme  is  to  Carlisle  gane  . 


shay? 


Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances 

Happy,  happier  far  than  tliou     . 

Happy  those  early  days  when  I 

Hark,  hark !  the  fark  at  heaven's  gate  sings 

Hark,  how  I'll  bribe  you 

Hath  this  world  without  me  wrought? 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss- 

Hearken  in  your  ear 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  hookM  hands 

He  is  gone  —  is  dust 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountains  . 

He  leaves  the  earth,  and  saj^s  enough 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights ! 

Hence,  loathM  melancholy! 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys !     .        .        . 

Here  is  the  place ;  right  over  the  hill 

Here  let  us  live,  and  spend  away  our  lives 

Here  might  1  pause  and  bend  in  reverence 

Her  eyes  the  glow-wonne  lend  thee 

Her  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 

Her  finger  was  so  small  the  ring   . 

Her  house  is  all  of  echo  made     .        .        . 

He's  a  rai-e  man        .        .        .   '     . 

He's  gane !  he's  gane !  he's  f  rae  us  torn    . 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 

He  works  in  rings,  in  magic  rings  of  chance 

Hope  smiled  when  your  nativity  was  cast 

How  changed  is  here  each  place  man  makes  or  tills ! 

How  fresh,  O  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean! 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 

How  many  a  time  have  I     .        .        .        . 

How  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subjects 

How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair ! 

How  oft  when  thou  my  music,  music  play'st 

How  pleasant  were  the  songs  of  Toobonai ! 

How  seldom,  friends,  a  good  great  man  inherits 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 

How  soon  hath  time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 

How  they  go  by,  those  strange  and  dreamlike  men ! 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze ! 

How  young  and  fresh  am  1  to-night ! 


I  am  holy  while  I  stand  .... 
I  called  on  dreams  and  visions  to  disclose 
I  came  to  a  laund  of  white  and  green  . 


Henry  More  . 
Shakspeare 
Wordsworth 
Shakspeare 
Dryden  . 
Shakspeare 
Shakspeare  . 
Tennvsox    . 
Spenser  . 
Shakspeare 

Herrick  . 

G.  Chapman 

Bex  Jonson    . 

Sir  W.  Raleigh. 

Heywood 

Cowper 

Chaucer. 

Herrick 

Jeax  Ixgelow 

Waller 

Sir  W.  Raleigh 

O.  W.  Holmes     . 

Young 

Pollok 

Scott 

Scott 

Mrs.  Hemans 

Vaughan 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare  . 

F.  H.  Hedge 

O.  W.  Holmes 

Lowell 

Tennyson 

Coleridge  (Trans.] 

Scott 

S.  G.  W. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Milton    . 

Milton . 

Whittier 

Channing    . 

Wordsworth 

Herrick 

Whittier 

Sir  John  Suckling 

Ben  Jonson    . 

Jean  Ingelow 

Burns 

T.  Carew     . 

J.  J.  G.  Wilkinson 

Wordsworth     . 

Matthew  Arnold 

Herbert 

WOTTON    . 

Byron  . 
Shakspeare  . 
Ben  Jonson 
Shakspeare  . 
Byron  . 
Coleridge 
Collins 
Milton     . 
Shakspeare 
E.  S.  H     . 
Marvell 
Ben  Jonson 

Herrick 

Wordsworth 

Chaucer 


628 


INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES. 


I  challenge  not  the  oracle 

I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Helvellyn  . 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song 

If  I  may  trust  the  flattering  eye  of  sleep  . 

If  men  be  worlds,  there  is  in  every  one 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain    .... 

If  thou  be  one  whose  heart  the  holy  forms 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love       .... 

If  with  li^ht  head  erect  I  sing        .... 

1  got  me  flowers  to  strew  thy  way      .... 

I  nave  done  one  braver  thing 

I  have  learned  to  look  on  nature        .... 

I  have  ships  that  went  to  sea 

I  have,  thou  gallant  Trojan 

I  have  woven  shrouds  of  air 

I  hear  thy  solemn  anthem  fall 

I  know  a  little  garden  close 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall 

I  made  a  posie  while  the  day  ran  by    . 

I  mind  it  weel,  in  early  date 

I'm  sitting  alone  by  the  Are 

I  must  go  furnish  up 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale  I  stood 

In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken  rest     . 

In  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 

In  the  golden  reign  of  Charlemagne  the  king  . 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress      ..... 

In  the  summer  even 

In  this  world,  the  isle  of  dreams  .... 
In  vain  the  common  theme  my  tongue  would  shun 
In  what  torn  ship  soever  I  embax'k 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies 

I  see  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise       .... 
I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie    . 

I  see  men's  judgments  are 

I  shall  lack  voice :  the  deeds  of  Coriolanus  . 
I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below    . 
I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers 
I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he  . 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 

Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child?    . 
It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John  .... 

It  follows  now  you  are  to  prove 

It  happed  that  I  came  on  a  day     .... 

I  think  not  on  my  father 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king         .... 

It's  narrow,  narrow  make  yovir  bed 

It's  no  in  titles  or  in  rank 

It  was  fifty  years  ago 

It  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land  . 
It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow    .... 

It  was  the  winter  wild 

It  was  thy  fear,  or  else  some  transient  wind 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

I  watched  her  face,  suspecting  germs  . 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies 

I  would  that  thou  might  always  be       .        .        . 
I've  taught  me  other  tongues 


Sidney  H.  Moese 
Scott     . 
Collins    . 
Shakspeare 
Donne 

Wordsworth     . 
Wordsworth 
B.  Heber 
Thoreau . 
Herbert 
Donne 

Wordsworth 
R.  B.  Coffin   . 
Shakspeare 
c  banning 
Channing    . 
William  Morris 
Byron  . 
Herbert  . 
Burns  . 
Bret  Harte  . 
Arthur  Boar    . 
Wordsworth  . 
Tennyson    . 
Wordsworth 
tuokerman 
Herrick  . 
Harriet  Prescott  I 
Herrick  . 

O.  W.  HOL3IES 

Donne 
Coleridge  . 
Collins    . 
Byron  . 
Byron 
Shakspeare 

SHAKSPEAItB    . 

Shelley 

Herrick  . 

Browning    . 

Burns 

Byron  . 

Lowell    . 

Ben  Jon  son 

Chaucer 

Shakspeare 

Wordsworth 

Tennvson    . 

Scott 

Burns  . 

Longfellow  . 

Longfellow 

Tennyson 

Milton  . 

W.  Congreve 

Wordsworth 

Patmore 

Scott    . 

N.  P.  Willis  . 

Byron  . 


Spofford 


John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John      .        .        .       .        ,  Burns 

John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled  like  a  steadfast  .       .  Stedman 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us       .        .       .  Browning 

Just  now  I've  ta'en  a  tit  of  rhyme        ....  Burns   . 

Kings,  queens,  lords,  ladies,  knights,  and  damsels 

great Spenser  . 

Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be        .       .       .  Daniel 

King  Ferdinand  alone  did  stand  one  day  upon  the  hill  "^^iJs'^^T^  Spanish 


Lady  Clara  Vere  De  Vere    . 

Lady,  there  is  a  hope  that  all  men  have 


Tennyson 
Channing 


326 

43 

122 

517 

521 

520 

53 

94 

192 

154 

29 

122 

265 

27 

92 

442 

283 

151 

220 

495 

36 

144 

92 

22 

357 

186 

448 

123 

232 

180 

126 

462 

514 

283 

511 

265 

46 

3 

355 

147 

276 

235 

433 

60 

62 

223 

101 

384 

518 

280 

11 

381 

187 

133 

33 

59 

411 

57 

277 


Bal- 


438 

227 

224 

95 


293 
517 


300 


365 
163 


INDEX  OF  FIEST  LINES. 


529 


Lately,  alas !  I  knew  a  gentle  boy 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 
Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  admired 
Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds     . 

Let  the  bird  of  loudest  lay 

Life  and  thought  have  goue  away  . 

Ijife,  I  know  not  what  thou  art    .... 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways    . 
Light-winged  smoke!  Icarian  bird 
Ijike  a  poet  hidden    ...... 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore 
Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere  . 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen 

Little  I  ask.  my  wants  are  few 

Little  was  King  Laurin 

Lochiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day 

"  Lo,"  quoth  he,  "  Cast  up  thine  eye  " 

I^o !  on  hi.s  far  resounding  path 

Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  chai-ming 

Lord,  when  I  quit  this  earthly  stage     . 

Lord,  with  what  care  hast  thou  begiii;  us  round 

Loud  is  the  vale,  the  voice  is  up    . 

Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes  .... 

Low-anchored  cloud 

Lo,  when  the  Lord  made  North  and  South 
Lo,  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace 


Macbeth  is  ripe  for  shaking 

Man,  thee  behooveth  oft  to  have  this  in  mind 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below 

Men  have  done  brave  deeds    .... 

Merciful  Heaven! 

Merry  it  is  in  tlie  good  green  wood 

Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  "  Sleep  no  more 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here 

Milton,  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour    . 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory 

Mine  honesty  and  I  begin  to  square  . 

Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors   . 

Motions  and  means,  on  land  and  sea  at  war     . 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully  .... 

Mourn,  hills  and  groves  of  Attica 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold 

My  dear  and  only  love,  1  pray    .... 

My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither 

IVIy  God,  1  heard  this  day 

My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners  . 

My  lord,  you  told  me  you  would  tell  the  rest   . 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is  . 

My  mistress's  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun 

My  mother,  when  I  learned  tliat  thou  wast  dead 

Mysterious  night !  when  our  tirst  parent  knew 


Naked  on  parents'  knees,  a  new-born  child . 

Nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean    . 

Nay,  you  wrong  her,  my  friend 

Needy  knife-grinder,  whither  are  you  going? 

Night  is  fair  Virtue's  immemorial  friend     . 

No  abbey's  gloom,  nor  dark  cathedral  stoops 

No !  is  my  answer  from  this  cold  bleak  ridge 

No  man  is  the  lord  of  any  thing . 

No  more,  no  more.  Oh !  never  more  on  me  . 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door 

No  screw,  no  piercer  can 

No  splendor  'neath  the  sky's  proud  dome 
Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note    . 
Not  mine  own  fears  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Nought  loves  another  as  itself 
November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angiy  sugh 
Now  deeper  roll  the  maddening  drums 
Now  baud  your  tongue         .... 
Now  is  the  time  for  mirth       .... 
Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent . 
Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green    . 
Now  overhead  a  rainbow  bui-sting  through 

M 


Thoreau  . 
Keats     . 

COWPER 

Shakspeare 
Shakspeare     . 
Tennyson 
Mrs.  Baubauld 
Lowell  . 
Thoreau  . 
Shelley 
Shakspeare     . 
Lodge     . 
Percy's  Reliques 
O.  W.  Holmes 
Warton    . 
Campbell 
Chaucer    . 
G.  Mellen     . 
Scott 
Watts  . 
Herbert  . 
Wordsworth 
Da  VIES     . 
Thoreau 
Patmore 
Spenser 

Shakspeare   . 
Anonymous  . 
J.  Q.  Adams    . 
E.  H.      . 
Shakspeare   . 
Scott     . 
Shakspeare   . 
H.  Knowles 
Wordsworth 
Mrs.  Howe  . 

ShAIvSPEARE    . 

Shakspeare 
Wordsworth  . 
Mrs.  Hemans 
Wordsworth  . 
Keats    . 
Montrose 
Shakspeare 
Herbert  . 
Shakspeare 
Shakspeare   . 
Byrd     . 
Shakspeare   . 

COWPER 

J.  Blanco  White 


Sir  W.  Jones  (Trans 

Shakspeare   . 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr 

Canning  . 

Young  . 

Channing 

Lucy  Larcom 

Shakspeare 

Byron  . 

Keats 

Herrick 

Patmore 

Wolfe  . 

Shakspeare 

W.  Blake 

Burns 

G.  Mellen 

Scott 

Herrick 

Shakspeare 

Burns   . 

Byron 


;30 


INDEX  OF  FIEST  LINES. 


best 


Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear 
Now  wol  1  turn  uiUo  my  tale  agen     . 

O  Brignall  Banks  are  wild  and  fair 

O  dariv,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon      . 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morris;on !       .        .        . 

O  divine  star  of  heaven 

O  draw  me,  Father,  after  thee 

O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea 

O'er  western  tides  the  fair  spring  day  . 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

O  for  my  sake  do  you  with  fortune  chide     . 
Often  trilling  with  a  privilege    .... 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 

Of  truth,  of  grandeur,  beauty,  love,  and  hope 

Oft  when  returning  with  her  loaded  bill 

O  heavens,  if  you  do  love  old  men     . 

O  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale? 

Oh,  go  not  yet,  my  love 

Oh,  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  fause  Sakelde  . 
Oh,  how  nmch  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  se( 
Oh,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it's  you  1  love  the 
O  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
O  how  feeble  is  man's  power  .... 
Oh,  weel  may  the  boatie  row       .... 
O  1  have  passed  a  miserable  night 

O  joy  hast  thou  a  face 

O  keeper  of  the  saci'ed  key     .... 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay 

Old  wine  to  drink 

O  Lord,  in  me  there  lieth  nought 

O  messenger,  art  thou  the  king,  or  I?  . 

O  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose  .... 

Once  git  a  smell  o'  musk  into  a  draw    . 

Once  more,  Cesario 

Once  we  built  our  fortress  where  you  see     . 

On  the  mountain  peak 

O  never  rudely  will  I  blame  his  faith    . 
One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way 
On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 

O  Proserpina 

Or  if  the  soul  of  proper  kind  .... 
Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees 
O  Sacred  Providence,  who  from  end  to  end 
O  than  the  fairest  day  thrice  fairer  night 
Oh  that  last  day  in  Lucknow  fort  . 

O  that  we  now  had  here 

O  the  days  are  gone  when  beauty  bright 
O  then  what  soul  was  his,  when,  on  the  tops    . 
O  then  I  see  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you 
O  thou  goddess       ....  .        . 

O  thou  who  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell  . 
O  thou  that  swing'st  upon  the  waving  ear 

O! 'tis  wondrous  much 

Our  boat  to  the  waves  go  free     .... 

Our  brethren  of  New  England  use 

Our  bugles  sang  truce ;  for  the  night  cloud  had  lowered 

Our  revels  now  are  ended        .... 

Out  upon  it:  I  have  loved   .... 

Out  upon  time,  who  will  leave  no  more 

O  waly,  waly,  my  gay  goss-hawk 

O  waly,  waly,  up  tlie  bank       .... 

O  ye  wha  are  aae  guid  youi-sel     . 

O  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West 


Passion  o'  me !  cried  Sir  Richard  Tyrone  . 

Peace  to  all  such 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu        .... 
Pleased  we  remember  our  august  abodes 
Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise  . 


Queeu  Bouduca,  I  do  not  grieve  your  fortune 


Anonymous 
Chaucek     . 


Fletcher 


Scott     . 

Milton     . 

Motherwell 

Beaumont  and 

John  Wesley 

Byron  . 

W.  Allingham 

Burns   . 

Whittier 

Campbell    . 

Shakspeare  . 

Wordsworth 

T.  Moore 

Wordsworth 

Thomson  . 

Shakspeare 

Campbell 

Tennyson    . 

Scott 

Shakspeare 

Allingham     . 

Beattie 

Donne 

Anonymous. 

Shakspeare  . 

H.  H.      . 

F.  WiLLSON       . 

Scott    . 

Messinger 

Sidney  . 

H.  H  . 

Burns  ... 

Lowell    . 

Shakspeare 

Channing 

Channing 

Coleridge 

Spenser 

Campbell 

Shakspeare 

Chaucer .       .       . 

Shakspeare 

Herbert  . 

William  Drummond 

Robert  Lowell    . 

Shakspeare 

T.  Moore 

Wordsworth     . 

Shakspeare  . 

Shakspeare 

Burns 

Lovelace    . 

Chapman 

Channing 

Butler    . 

Campbell    . 

Shakspeare  . 

Sir  John  Suckling 

Byron 

Anonymous  . 

Anonymous    . 

Burns  . 

Scott 


G.  W.  Thobnbury 
.    Pope. 

Scott    . 
.    Landor    . 

Mrs.  Barbauld  . 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher 


33t 
16 


213 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


531 


Rabia,  sick  upon  her  bed 

Rambling  along  the  marshes       .  ... 

Rashly,  —  And  praised  be  rashness  for  it      .        .        . 
Reason  tlius  witli  life    .        .  .... 

Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scattered  heaps  . 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  tlie  wild  sky  .... 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the  golden  cushion  down 

Round  my  own  pretty  rose 

Royal  Egypt !    Empress 

Rudolph,  professor  of  tlie  headsman's  trade    . 

Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  king 

Rumble  thy  belly  full !  spit  tire !  spout  rain !    . 
Run,  shepherds,' run  where  Betldehem  blest  appears 

Say  to  me,  whose  fortunes  shall  rise  higher     . 

Say,  what  is  Honor? 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled        .... 

See  how  the  Orient  dew 

See  living  vales  by  living  waters  blest 

See  the  chariot  at  liand  here  of  love     .... 

See  yonder  souls  set  far  witliin  the  shade 

Send  us  your  prisoners,  or  you'll  hear  of  it . 

Shake  otf  your  heavy  trance 

Sliall  I,  wasting  in  despair? 

She,  of  whose  soul,  if  we  may  say,  'twas  gold. 
Slie's  gane  to  dwell  in  heaven,  my  lassie 
She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night    .... 
Sliine  kindly  fortli,  September  sun        .... 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot  .... 

Silence  augmenteth  grief  —  writing  encreaseth  rage  . 

Silent.  O  Moyle,  be  tlie  roar  of  thy  water 

Since  I  am  coming  to  that  holy  room    .... 

Since  our  country  our  God  —  Oh,  my  sire ! 

Since  the  sun 

Sing,  and  let  your  song  be  new 

Sing,  O  Goddess,  the  wrath,  the  ontamable  dander 

of  Keitt 

Sitting  in  my  window 

Sleep  is  like  death,  and  after  sleep    .... 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves    .... 

Slow,  slow  fresh  fount,  keep  time      .... 

So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key 

So  every  spirit  as  it  is  most  pure        .... 

So  fallen !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Soft  you ;  a  word  or  two  before  you  go      .        .        . 

So  Saturn,  as  he  walked  into  the  midst 

So,  wlien  their  feet  were  planted  on  the  plain 

Spring  all  the  graces  of  the  age 

St.  Mark's  hushed  abbey  heard 

Star  of  the  flowers  and  flower  of  the  stars  . 
Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  .... 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 

Svend  Vonved  binds  liis  sword  to  his  side . 

Sweep  ho!  Sweep  ho! 

Sweet  country  life,  to  such  unknown 
Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  briglit  .... 
Sweet  echo,  sweetest  nymph  that  liv'st  unseen 
Sweetness,  truth,  and  every  grace  .... 

Sweet  peace,  whei-e  dost  tliou  dwell  .... 
Sweet  scented  flower,  who  art  wont  to  bloom     . 

Take  along  with  thee 

Take,  O  take  tliose  lips  away  . 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King 

Tell  nie  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind  . 

Tell  me  wliere  is  fancy  bred  .    . 

Tell  us,  thou  clear  and  heavenly  tongue 

Thanks  for  the  lessons  of  this  spot    . 

That  instrument  ne'er  heard  . 

That  regal  soul  1  reverence  in  whose  eyes 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 

The  Abbot  on  the  threshold  stood      .... 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold 

The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnished  throne . 


J.  F.  Clarke  (Trans.) 

Cranking  . 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare 

Byrox 

Tennyson  . 

Lock HART 

T.  H.  Bayly 

Shakspeare 

O.  W.  Holmes 

Gray 

Shakspeare 

William  Drummond 

Shakspeare 

Wordsworth 

Burns   .... 

Marvell  . 

Charles  Sprague     . 

Bex  eJoxsoN    . 

Ben  Jonson 

Shakspeare   . 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Wither    .... 

Donne  . 

A.  Cunningham 

Byron  . 

F.  B.  Sanborn 

Burns   . 

Fulke     Greville     (Lord 

Brooke)    . 
Moore 
Donne  . 
Byron 

Wordsworth 
Sir  Philip  Sidney 

Punch  . 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Allingham 

Henry  Timrod 

Ben  Jonson 

Shakspeare   . 

Spenser 

Whittier 

Shakspeare 

Keats 

Tennyson    . 

Ben  Jonson    . 

Miss  S.  H.  Palfrey 

J.  J.  G.  Wilkinson 

Wordsworth 

Ben  Jonson 

George  Borrow  (Trans.) 

E.  S.  H.     . 

Herrick 

Herbert  . 

Milton . 

Waller  . 

Herbert 

KiRKE  White 


Ben  Jonson 

Shakspeare 

Herbert 

Lovelace 

Shakspeare 

Herrick  . 

Wordsworth 

Drayton 

D.  A.  Wasson 

E.  Waller 
Scott    . 
Byron 
Shakspeare 


532 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


The  birds  against  the  April  wind 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high  . 

The  bush  that  has  most  briars  and  bitter  fruit 

The  clouds  are  flying,  the  woods  are  sighing 

The  convent-bells  are  ringing     . 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day    . 

The  daughter  of  a  king,  how  should  I  know? 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore  . 

The  destiny,  minister  general     . 

The  earth  goes  on,  the  earth  glittering  in  gold 

The  faery  beam  upon  you    .        ... 

The  feathered  songster  Chanticleer 

The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow 

The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 

The  gods  be  your  terror 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls  . 

The  house  of  Chivalry  decayed      . 

The  king  called  his  best  archers 

The  king  is  full  of  gi-ace  and  fair  regard 

The  king  is  kind ;  and  well  we  know 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town 

The  king  was  on  his  throne 

The  Lord  descended  from  above  . 

The  melancholy  days  are  come 

The  merry  world  did  oji  a  day 

Tlie  minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night 

The  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down 

The  muse  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 

The  muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her 

The  night  is  come  like  to  the  day  . 

The  night  is  made  for  cooling  shade . 

The  night  is  past  and  shines  the  sun 

The  old  man  said,  "  Take  thou  this  shield,  ray 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower 

The  owl  is  abroad,  the  bat,  the  toad 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill     . 

There  are  points  from  which  we  can  command 

There  came  to  Cameliard        .... 

The  recluse  hermit  ofttimes  more  doth  know  . 

Tliere  in  tiie  fane  a  beauteous  creature  stands 

There  is  a  history  in  all  men's  lives   . 

There  is  a  mystery  in  the  soul  of  state 

Thei"e  is  an  island  on  a  river  lying 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  jjatliless  woods    . 

There  is  a  stream,  I  name  not  its  name    . 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affaii-s  of  men 

There  is  a  Yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton  Vale 

There  like  a  rich  and  golden  pyramid    . 

"  There  is  no  God,"  the  wicked  saith 

There's  a  flag  hangs  over  my  threshold 

There  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest 

There  was  a  boy;  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 

There  was  a  king  that  much  might    . 

Tliere  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  sneer 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream  . 

Ther  is  right  at  the  West  side  of  Itaille 

The  sea  rolls  vaguely,  and  the  stars  are  dumb 

Tlie  shadow  on  the  dial's  face    . 

The  sky  is  changed ;  and  such  a  change 

The  snows  arise ;  and  foul  and  flerce 

The  spacious  lirmament  on  high    , 

The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls  . 

Tlie  stars  above  will  make  thee  knovm 

The  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land     . 

The  unearthly  voices  ceased 

The  wan  Ion  troopers  riding  by 

The  weather  leech  of  the  topsail  shivers 

The  Wihlgrave  winds  his  bugle-horn    . 

The  wind  it  blew,  aud  the  ship  it  flew 


life 


Whittier 
Mrs.  Hemans 
Jones  Very 
Anonymous  (Trans 
Byron 
Gray     . 
H.  H  . 

J.  K.  Randall 
Chaucer  . 
Anonymous  . 
Ben  Jonson    . 
T.  Chatterton 
Shakspeare   . 
James  Shirley 
Shakspeare  . 
Goethe:  Trans 

INGHAM       . 

Moore 

Ben  Jonson 

Anonymous    . 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare  , 

Anonymous 

Byron 

Sternhold  . 

Bryant   . 

Herbpirt 

Wordsworth 

Byron  . 

Byron 

George  Wither 

Burns 

Sir  T.  Browne 

J.  T,  Trowbridge 

Byron  . 

S.  G.  W     . 

Jean  Ingelow 

Ben  Jonson    . 

Whittier     . 

P.  Bailey 

Tennyson    . 

Donne; 

Prof.  Wilson  (Trans, 

Shakspeare  . 

Shakspeare 

J.  W.  Morris  . 

Bykon  . 

A.  H.  Clough  . 

Shakspeare 

Wordsworth 

Ben  Jonson 

Clough    . 

Mrs.  Howe  . 

Byron 

Wordsworth 

GOWER       . 

Byron  . 

Byron 

Wordsworth 

Chaucer 

Allingham 

J.  Montgomery 

Byron  . 

Thomson 

Addison 

Byron 

Tennyson 

Cowley   . 

Whittier 

Scott 

Makvell 

W.  Mitchell 

Scott    . 

Gboboe  MacDonald 


BY  Froth 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


533 


The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast      .        .        .       . 
The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall . 
They  made  her  a  gi-ave  too  cold  and  damp 
They  told  me  I  was  heii- :  I  turned  in  haste 

They  that  never  had  the  use 

Think  we  King  Harry  strong 

This  ae  night,  this  ae  night 

This  army  led  by  a  delicate  and  tender  prince    . 

This  bright  wood-fire 

This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  air 
This  knight  a  doughter  hadde  by  his  wif  . 
This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire 

Thou  art  not  gone,  being  gone 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew 
Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over 
Thou  hast  learned  the  woes  of  all  the  world 
Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeannie 
Thou  hidden  love  of  God !  whose  height 

Thou  that  art  our  queen  again 

Thou  that  hast  a  daughter 

Thou  that  hast  given  so  much  to  me .        .        .        . 
Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird !    . 
Thou  whose  sweet  youtlx  and  early  hopes  enhance 
Three  days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed 
Three  poet's  in  three  distant  ages  born 
Three  score  o'  nobles  rade  up  the  king's  ha' 
Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  . 
Thy  braes  were  bonny,  yarrow  stream  . 
Thy  voice  is  heard  through  rolling  di'ums 
Tiger !  Tiger !  burning  bright         .... 
Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his  back  . 
Tired  nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep  . 

'Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 

*Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more  . 

'Tis  not  every  day  that  I 

'Tis  not  in  battles  that  from  youth  we  train 
'Tis  truth,  although  this  truth's  a  star 

To  be  furious 

To  beguile  the  time 

To  be  no  more  —  sad  cure 

To  be  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question    . 

To  fair  Fi dele's  grassy  tomb 

To  heroism  and  holiness 

Toiling  in  the  naked  fields 

To  keep  the  lamp  alive 

To  me  men  are  for  what  they  are  .... 
Toll  for  the  brave 


To  the  belfry  one  by  one,  went  the  ringers  from  the  sun 
To  the  Lords  of  Convention       ..... 
True  bard  and  simple,  —  as  the  race     .... 
Triumphal  arch,  that  till'st  the  sky    .... 
'Twas  All-Souls'  eve,  and  Surrey's  heart  beat  high    . 
'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Pei-sia  won    . 
Two  went  to  pray  —  oh!  rather  say       .... 
Two  voices  are  there ;  one  is  of  the  sea    . 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lye  .... 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Upon  a  rock  yet  uncreate 

Uvedale,  thou  piece  of  the  first  times.  . 

Vane,  young  in  years,  but  in  sage  counsel  old 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind        .... 


Burns 

Tennyson    . 

T.  Moore 

H.  H.      . 

Edmund  Waller 

Shakspeare 

Southwell    . 

Shakspeare 

E.  S.  H .    . 

Shakspeare 

Chaucer  . 

Ben  Jonson 

Donne 

Bryant 

Byron 

C.  S.  T.  . 

A.  Cunningham 

Wesley  (Trans.) 

Leigh  Hunt    . 

W.  Allingham 

Herbert  . 

Keats  . 

Herbert 

H.  H.  Brownell 

Dryden   . 

Smith's  Scottish  Minstrel 

Wordsworth 

T.  Logan     . 

Tennyson 

W.  Blake    . 

Shakspeare  . 

Young  . 

Marvell 

Beattie 

Herrick  . 

Wordsworth 

Patmore  . 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare  . 

Milton 

Shakspeare  . 

Collins 

Patmore . 

John  Clare 

Cowper    . 

Milnes 

Cowper    . 

Mrs.  Browning 

Scott 

Moore  . 

Campbell' 

Scott    . 

Dryden   , 

Richard  Crashaw 

Wordsworth 


Wail  for  Daedalus,  all  that  is  fairest .        .        .       , 
Walking  thus  towards  a  pleasant  grove 
Warriors  and  chiefs !  should  the  shaft  or  sword     . 
Wee,  modest,  crimson,  tipped  flower    . 
Wee,  sleekit,  cow'ring,  timorous  beastie  , 
Well,  honor  is  the  subject  of  my  story  . 

We  must  not  stint 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way     . 
What  is  good  for  a  bootless  ben6       .        .       .        . 
What  needs  my  Shakspeare  for  his  honored  bones 


Ben  Jonson 
Ben  Jonson    . 
Shakspeare 
Anonymous    . 
Ben  Jonson 

Milton    . 
Tennyson    . 

Sterling  . 
Lord  Herbert 
Byron 
Burns  . 
Burns 
Shakspeare 
Shakspeare  . 
Berkeley    . 
Wordsworth 
Milton  . 


22 
165 


534 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LIISTES. 


When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure  . 
Whence  is  it  that  the  air  so  sudden  clears  . 
When  Chapman  billies  leave  the  street    . 
When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay 
Wlien  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue    . 
Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought 
When  tirst  thou  didst  entice  to  thee  my  heart 
When  Flora  with  her  fragrant  flowers  , 
When  God  at  lirst  made  man 
Wlien  I  a  verse  shall  make     .... 
When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent    . 
When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time 
When  I  love  as  some  have  told  . 
When  Love  with  unconflnM  wings 
When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young  . 
When  spring  to  woods  and  wastes  around  . 
When  the  British  warrior  queen 
When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave     . 
When  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke 
Wlien  we  in  our  viciousness  grow  hard 
When  whispering  strains  witli  creeping  wind 
When  wise  Minerva  still  was  young 
When  with  the  virgin  morning  thou  dost  rise 
Where  dost  thou  careless  lie  . 
Where  have  ye  been,  ye  ill  woman?  . 
Where  is  Timarclius  gone?     .... 
Where  like  a  pillow  on  a  bed 
Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I 
Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 

Which  I  wish  to  remark 

While  from  the  purpling  east  departs 
While  malice.  Pope,  denies  thy  page    , 
Wliither  midst  falling  dew  .... 
Who  counts  himself  as  nobly  boi'n 
Who  can  divine  what  impulses  from  God 
Who  is  the  happy  warrior       .... 
Who  is  the  honest  man        .... 
Whose  are  the  gilded  tents  that  crowd  the  way 

Whoso  him  bethoft 

Why  fearest  thou  the  outward  foe 
Willie  stands  in  his  stable  door  . 
Wilt  thou  be  gone?  it  is  not  yet  near  day  . 
Winstanley's  deed,  you  kindly  folk   . 

Within  my  ears  resounds  that  ancient  song 

Within  the  mind  strong  fancies  work 

With  joys  unknown,  with  sadness  unconfessed 

With  naked  foot  and  sackcloth  vest . 

With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn   . 

Woof  of  the  fen,  ethereal  gauze 

Would  wisdom  for  herself  be  wooed     . 

Ye  bajiks  and  braes  of  bonnle  Doon 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers     . 

Ye  mariners  of  fhigland      .... 

Ye  scattered  birds  that  faintly  sing 

Yes,  I  answered  you  last  night   . 

Ye  sigh  not  when  the  sun  his  course  f  ultilled 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee     .... 

Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more 
You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier 
You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night     . 
Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  he  sought  me 

britfe 

Young  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep 

Your  grace  shall  i)ardon  me    . 

You  that  can  look  through  Heaven,  and  tell  the  stars 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  mibekuown 


Burns 
Ben  Jonson 

BUKNS 

Byron  . 

Shakspeare 

Longfellow 

Herbert 

Anonymous 

Herbert 

Herrick 

Milton    . 

Shakspeare 

Herrick  . 

Lovelace    . 

Collins    . 

Bryant 

Cowper   . 

Byron  . 

Bryant   . 

Shakspeare 

William  Strode 

Lowell 

Herrick  . 

Ben  Jonson 

Hogg 

From  Simonides 

Donne 

Shakspeare 

Marvell 

Bret  Harte 

Wordsworth 

David  Lewis 

Bryant    . 

E.  S. H. . 
Wordsworth 
Wordsworth 
Herbert 
Moore  . 
Anonymous    . 
Anonymous 
BucHAN's  Ballads 
Shakspeare 
Jean  Ingelow 
Goethe:  Trans 

INGHAM 

Wordsworth 

F.  B.  Sanborn 
Scott    . 
Wordsworth 
Thoreau     . 
Patmore 


for  his 


Burns 
Gray     . 
Campbell 
Burns  . 
Mrs.  Browning 
Bryant 
Bryant    . 
Shakspeare 
Milton    . 
Tom  Taylor 
Wotton  . 


by 


Froth 


Lady  Anne  Lindsay 

Byron 

Shakspeare 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Lowell 


z.in 


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